Bricks in the Wall
by Gamebird
Summary: A collection of unrelated drabbles, one-shots and stand-alones set in the Wall.
1. Tap Tap Tapping

_Ta-tap tap tap tap. Ta-tap tap tap tap. Ta-tap tap tap tap. Ta-tap tap tap tap. Ta-tap tap tap tap. Ta-tap tap tap tap._

Sylar looked up over his book, watching as Peter cradled his guitar but instead of playing, was tapping out an irritating beat on the case. It reminded Sylar of the steady, ticking progress of a second hand and in fact, Peter's tapping was _exactly_ one tap to the second … except for that nagging half beat every four taps. It threw the whole thing off.

Sylar itched to fix, to regulate, to calibrate. Peter had always marched to his own drummer. One of the things Sylar had to learn was that not every clock needed to be fixed.


	2. Things Unsaid

**Title: **Things Unsaid  
><strong>Characters: <strong>Sylar/Peter Petrelli  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG-13  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Mild violence  
><strong>Word count: <strong>~2,800  
><strong>Setting: <strong>The Wall. This is a companion piece to means2bhuman's Last Man On Earth, which can be found on LiveJournal.  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Peter reacts to Sylar's tender kiss and the realization of Sylar's true feelings that comes with it.

"You … You …" Peter couldn't finish the sentence as he sat there on the couch trying to assimilate that very wonderful, gentle kiss Sylar had just given him. The words simply weren't there. Yeah, he'd known Sylar was flirting with him; he'd known the man was making passes and in some cases outright offers. Peter had ignored them, blown them off, declined and sometimes rejected them angrily. It had _never_ occurred to him that Sylar actually liked him. _**Never**_. Shock was coursing through his system so hard and fast that he couldn't think, much less speak. _All this time …?_

When it had first happened, he hadn't been sure what Sylar was getting at. Then he thought maybe the guy was just really poorly socialized. Or just unhinged by the idea that he'd been alone for three years. Or just really bored and looking for a diversion. And a lot of the time, Peter thought Sylar was flirting with him just to unnerve and upset him, intentionally setting Peter off because he thought it was funny. Just, just … _**just**_. It hadn't occurred to him there was something else going on.

Peter felt like a mix of being punched in the gut and having the rug jerked out from under him, as his entire perception about Sylar's motives and behavior shifted and changed. Everything looked different now - everything Sylar had done here in this world took on a new spin and Peter could sense puzzle pieces falling into place that he hadn't even realized were missing. His eyes widened as he stared at Sylar's face, unsaid, unspeakable words hovering silently on his lips.

The blood drained from Sylar's face as he realized the game was over - Peter knew. And Peter did. Sylar's involuntary physical response proved it, not that he needed any proof. Just the thought, the firm suspicion, was enough of a key to unlock all the mysteries and confusing, arbitrary and sometimes moody-seeming behaviors that Sylar took with him. The man was smitten, to use an old-fashioned term, and he acted like it. Peter just hadn't recognized it - until now. Sylar's face pinched in worry and he slowly retreated backwards on the couch until he was at the other end.

_All of this … he's crushing on me. He really … he really has a crush on me. He … he __**likes**__ me. He really likes me! Like __**really**__ likes me. Seriously likes me. Has liked me for a long time, apparently. Shit! What the hell do I do about that?_ Peter got to his feet, aghast, still trying to process. He ran a hand through his hair, looking away and blinking as though that would clear things up. _How do I feel about that? How do I feel about him?_

He felt uncertain. He felt scared. He felt flattered. He hadn't realized that Sylar really liked him for _himself. _That was what had made it so easy to dismiss his interest and semi-permanently friendzone the guy. That and the complication of everything Sylar had done and been in his life recently. People of Sylar's experiences weren't what came to Peter's mind when he considered backgrounds for possible lovers. _But … can I get past that? Do I want to get past that?_

Peter was lost at sea here, not least of which because he didn't know how he was supposed to feel about this. _How am I supposed to respond? What am I supposed to do? What's Sylar going to do now that the cat is out of the bag? _"I've … I've got to think about this," he finally managed to say, the words halting and accurately conveying how pole-axed Peter felt by the whole thing. He knew it had to be nothing compared to how Sylar must feel right now - exposed, found out, vulnerable and probably embarrassed, but for once Peter's own feelings overwhelmed his usually so-sensitive regard for the feelings of another. Or maybe there was something about Sylar, about all the past with Sylar that allowed Peter to step back and be himself, to feel his own feelings, without guilt. Peter shook his head, walking over to the door and reaching for the knob. _I need to get some time alone and think this through, think about what I'm going to do. I'm here; he's here; and he's been in lo… liking me all this time? Love maybe? He loves me?_

Sylar, though, was not letting Peter leave quietly. He rose and stood in the middle of his apartment. "So that's your big reaction? You're just going to walk away?" His voice started as uncertain and ended by hardening up fast to a hateful sneer.

Hand still on the knob, Peter glanced back to see Sylar's face. Sylar's feelings about this ran through his mind again. He didn't know what to do for the guy. He didn't know what to do for himself. _Sylar loves me?_ It made his heart beat faster just to think it. It made him flush and feel warm. It was a stupid reaction. It was confusing. Sylar was a killer. Peter hated him. And he still hated him - all the while feeling hot and bothered and restless all of a sudden. "I just … Sylar, I've got to think about this."

"Oh really?" Sylar asked sarcastically. "What is there to think about, huh? The answer's obvious. It always has been. Now I can't even fucking _pretend!_"

Peter opened the door, the pain bleeding through Sylar's words hitting him too deep. He couldn't remember the last time, if ever, anyone had loved him for him, knowing who he was, what he could do, his background and his real personality, and still … loved him? Simone had dumped him like a wet sandwich. Caitlin had never known what she was dealing with. Everyone before that blended together into a small crowd of casual hook-ups and short-term relationships that usually ended abruptly when he confessed his feelings. He'd never been in the position of being the person who was confessed _to_ and it gave him a hell of a lot of sympathy for those who had walked out of his life. But he still remembered the pain from every time that had happened. "That's not it! I didn't know-"

"Of course you didn't! You're the empath here, but no, of course you didn't know what the fuck I was feeling. And you want to know why, Peter? Because you didn't _care_. You didn't pay attention. Not to me. I'm not _worth_ paying attention to. I'm not worth caring about. Not for _you_." Sylar's lip curled in disgust as he nailed it dead-on.

Peter's mouth fell open in shock as he stood in the open doorway. "No … that's not true." He wasn't sure which part of it he was arguing, though. It was almost certainly all true and Peter felt weak inside, jolted by guilt and his own deliberate insensitivity. The one person he'd intentionally walled off any feelings for, any empathy for, was the one person who actually loved him. The irony was stifling.

"Oh yes it is. Why _would_ you care?" Sylar continued, closing up on him to an arm's length away, disdain and contempt thick in his words. "Do you think **I** haven't thought about this already? Maybe you're a little behind in the game, but I know where I stand with you. There's _nothing_ you need to go 'think about'. So just walk the fuck away, Peter. It's not like you're walking away from anything you actually care about!"

"Would you shut up!" Peter snapped, angry that Sylar was so sure he'd already made up his mind. He knew it was all of Sylar's insecurities and fears given voice after having been bottled up so long. "I told you I needed to think about it. I'm not _lying!_" Peter spoke through clenched teeth, angry and frustrated, feeling trapped and crushed under a welter of emotions he couldn't even begin to process. Sylar's proximity just made it worse. No matter how much he wanted to ignore the man's state, he could feel Sylar's heartfelt desires radiating around him like a numinous aura.

Sylar crowded up even closer to him and Peter felt his breath coming short. His vision was narrowing. Sylar seemed like the only thing in the world, disparaging and taunting. "What do you need to think about? How best to humiliate me with this for the rest of time? Or are you just going home to go jerk off to the idea of me drooling over you and never getting so much as a kind look or a pat on the head?"

"SHUT _**UP!**_" Peter shouted at him, agitation and fear beginning to fill him at the idea that Sylar thought that of him. And that, by walking away, Peter was somehow confirming that impression, verifying the worst that Sylar thought of him. Metaphorically spitting in the face of someone who loved him … Peter wanted to be loved. _But by Sylar?_

Sylar laughed dismissively, belittling his consternation. "Oh, sure, now I don't even get to talk to you? Let's see how that works to-"

Everything that Peter was feeling coiled and crashed together into a single bright point of certainty - he had to shut Sylar up. He had to. Nothing else was more important than that and he didn't think it through. He just lashed out, punching him in the face. He hit Sylar on the cheek and staggered him backwards. He instantly regretted throwing the punch, but at least it had stopped Sylar from spewing so much venom and poisoning the very air with the pain of his perceived rejection. Peter panted, barely able to breathe, his chest was so tight.

Sylar, though, was not going to take such abuse without retaliation. Maybe he'd even been intentionally pushing it to provoke Peter. It wasn't like he didn't have plenty of experience mashing Peter's buttons. He swung back, surging forward. Peter ducked and dodged backwards, out into the cluttered hall. The blow intended for the middle of his face clipped his forehead above his temple instead. It rattled his brain more than the usual headshot did. The world tilted crazily and he stumbled.

Sylar grabbed his shoulder and yanked, keeping him from falling. The cloth of Peter's shirt made a complaining sound. Peter assumed he was being lined up for another blow and flailed his arms, jerking his head to the side and grunting. Although he connected with Sylar's arm and was rapidly regaining his balance, he somehow managed to miss that one of Sylar's limbs was still over to the side where he couldn't see it. Maybe he was distracted by how the man was a lot closer than Peter had expected. There was no 'at arm's length' about Sylar's positioning as Peter blinked his eyes and got oriented. Before he could fully get his bearings, Sylar had Peter's head in both hands and pressed in fast, smashing their lips together painfully in a far rougher kiss than he'd given earlier.

Peter rose up on his toes in unexpected reaction, reaching up to grab instinctively at Sylar's hands. Sylar slipped one to the back of Peter's head to hold him there, while the other batted away half of Peter's interference. The fight had suddenly turned into something else and the latest of too many shocks in the last few minutes zapped through Peter's frame, paralyzing his brain as he stuttered over what he should do in response. The taller man lightened his touch a little, his lips working fast against Peter's, trying to squeeze all that he could into the precious seconds he had. Peter's other hand found Sylar's and curled around it as Sylar's fingers tangled in his hair and held fast, making Peter have to pull his own hair to get him loose. His free hand found Sylar's forearm and gripped it.

Peter paused in the struggle, trying to think as his breath panted out hotly. Sylar softened his touch again, opening his eyes to look into Peter's and there was a plea in that expression, in the way Sylar's brows drew together and the now-gentle motions of his mouth. He kissed more sensuously, less frantically, and Peter could feel his emotions - it was one unending entreaty for recognition, acceptance, and affection in return. Peter swallowed. He felt his body flush from top to bottom and he whimpered from that emotional onslaught that he couldn't deny. His fingers, twined with Sylar's at the back of his head, flexed irregularly as his will to fight the man off fragmented. He moved his mouth experimentally. Sylar sucked in breath and tilted his head a little in response to Peter's tentative movement.

Peter pulled away a tiny bit; his lips were sore and the pressure too much. Sylar allowed it, fingers clenching at the back of Peter's head, still entwined with Peter's own. Peter shut his eyes and let the moment have him. He'd already signaled his acquiescence and approval. He didn't want to think of why he shouldn't be doing this. He didn't want to think of anything. Lucky for him then, that at the moment thinking was the most difficult thing he could attempt. Just being - just experiencing and feeling and giving was so much easier. It came to him naturally. It felt right. His mouth meshed with Sylar's, moving with him and showing the other man how they could fit together perfectly. Peter crooned softly and Sylar redoubled his efforts, sucking at his lips and bringing his other hand up to touch the side of Peter's face. They were faint, ticklish touches that raised goose-flesh across Peter's body, stiffening him and making his eyes roll upwards behind their still-closed lids.

Peter let go of Sylar's forearm and put his hand on the man's chest, feeling Sylar's heart hammering away just as Peter's was. His fingers curled into Sylar's shirt and his croon became a moan, obscenely loud in a hallway that was quiet aside from their heavy breathing. Again, Sylar reacted as though that sound dowsed him with energy - his breath came faster, his fingers caressing gently and tenderly. Peter felt like he was melting inside, drowning in passion and rising arousal. With utmost difficulty, he forced his eyes open and flexed his fingers, spreading them until his palm was flat on Sylar's sternum. He didn't want to do this, but he had to - he had to before this went somewhere way further than a kiss. He pushed.

Sylar wasn't holding Peter's head anymore. When shoved back, he didn't clutch at Peter to keep him close. The kiss that had started as spite and thwarted desire, embarrassment and shame, had turned into so much more as Peter had returned it so unexpectedly. Sylar's eyes took in Peter's face and he managed to fight off smirking or doing anything else that would ruin the moment.

They stood a little too close, Peter's hand still resting on Sylar's chest as if forgotten, or perhaps just left there to make sure Sylar didn't kiss him again. Peter studied Sylar's face, but it was neutral enough. There was nothing there to trip him into fury and so Peter was left with his own feelings and the knowledge that he'd … well, he'd pretty well answered the 'how do I feel about Sylar' part of his internal interrogation. He looked down and relaxed, taking deep breaths and feeling the cooling moisture on his still-warm lips. He swallowed and looked up threateningly at Sylar, who lifted his brows slightly at the return of a hostile expression.

"Not a word," Peter said gravely. "Not a single word." He dropped his hand, waiting a beat to see if Sylar understood what he was asking for … demanding. He couldn't face what he'd just done. He couldn't accept that he'd done it. He'd kissed Sylar. He'd kissed him! He could feel the emotions inside of himself and there was definitely a returned enthusiasm and interest. He wanted more and he wanted it desperately, but there was everything else snarling and storming inside of Peter so noisily that he couldn't sort it out. He was back to the beginning - that he needed a chance to think about this. And maybe, just maybe after that kiss Sylar would let him do what he needed to do. Sylar's brows lowered, but he was silent. Peter nodded once, turned and walked away.


	3. Performance Anxiety

Sylar's cock slid inside of Peter's slicked, prepared body with a ridiculously minor degree of resistance. What that implied about Peter was positively obscene. It certainly wasn't a hot dog down a hallway (not that Sylar had any personal experience what that phrase referred to), but he'd expected a little more difficulty. Peter was definitely feeling it, at least, so that was good. Peter's hands clenched the cotton sheets in a white-knuckled grip and he grunted - a noise that usually didn't indicate pleasure. Sylar knew if he wanted to rate well as one of Peter's (apparently many) lovers and be invited to do this a second time, he needed to perform.

He made shallow thrusts, holding himself up over Peter's prostrate, facedown form, prodding into him. He could feel the wet warmth progressively sheathing him and it was fantastic. Peter's ass was firm and elastic - not nearly the barrier to access he'd imagined. Peter made another noise that sounded like a grunt and put his head down further, forehead pressed into the mattress. _Shit. I'm not doing this right._ Sylar drew back in a long, steady pull so that he was nearly out, then pushed back inside in a single lunge. This time the sound was a groan and Peter lifted his head a little. _Oh, yeah. That's good. He likes that. Thank God. Keep doing that._ Sylar repeated, time after time, feeling the muscles hug him oh-so-intimately with every motion. Peter bunched the sheets into his fists and began to croon between breathy gasps of air.

_He makes so many funny noises._ They were certainly helpful. And encouraging. While Sylar regretted not being able to see Peter's face for all the cues he might read there, he'd chosen the position precisely so Peter couldn't see _him_. He didn't think he would have been able to keep it up with Peter watching, seeing his uncertainty, and forcing Sylar to coordinate his own expression with everything else. He had no idea what expression was appropriate here. At least this way, it was one less thing he had to worry about.

Peter was starting to move under him, rocking his hips to meet Sylar's long, slow plunges. The beat was a little off, though, and Sylar realized Peter was trying to encourage him to speed up. _He's ready for more. Okay. I can do more._ He gradually picked up the pace, moving faster. The tenor of Peter's noises changed, too, until every thrust was punctuated by a guttural moan. _He must like this. Oh, wow. He sounds like he likes this a lot. For once I'm glad I don't have any neighbors! If you were a woman, you'd be a screamer for sure!_

Peter began squirming again, lifting his ass and reaching under his body to touch himself. _You dirty little boy, you. Filthy little slut, _Sylar thought with a grin, putting more force into his hips and watching Peter dig one shoulder into the mattress and put his head down to compensate. _You know exactly how to do this, how to get yourself off, don't you?_ Peter was wriggling his ass really oddly, making Sylar wonder if he wasn't doing it right any more. He realized he'd gotten distracted by putting down Peter in his mind. _Focus. You only get one first time. Especially with __**him**__._

Peter stopped touching himself, and braced with both hands, he came up partly to his knees, necessitating Sylar to shift position with him. _What the hell?_ They were half doggy-style, half lying on the bed. Sylar didn't know what else to do, so he just kept fucking.

"Up," Peter huffed out. "Go up a little."

_Up? What?_ Sylar leaned his center of gravity back, supported on only his knees. He held Peter's hips for balance. _He's giving directions now? I'm so bad he has to give directions?_

"Up like this." Peter reached a hand back and put it on Sylar's butt cheek, pushing upward while he himself shifted down. "Now point your dick down. You'll hit my prostate."

"Oh." _Yep, I'm so bad he's giving directions._ Sylar bit his lip and soldiered on, hoping he didn't lose his erection entirely. It was certainly faltering. What chance there was of that vanished with the cry Peter made and the full-body shudder he gave as Sylar did as he'd been told. He was fully hard again in an instant. _Oh! The hell? Is it __**that**__ good?_ Sylar had heard about the prostate, but he was not so gross or depraved as to have tried to find it on himself and none of his very few partners had volunteered, to date. If Peter was this forward and insistent about it for himself, though … then maybe Peter would offer it someday?

Peter's hand snaked under his body once more as he turned his head to the side, breathing hard. His hair screened much of his face, a little of it flopping back and forth teasingly in the wind of Peter's energetic respirations. The room already reeked of sex, so much so that Sylar wished he'd insisted they do this in his apartment, instead of this random one down the hall they'd agreed on using. It had seemed like the right choice at the time, but now that he was actually getting to fuck Peter's ass, Sylar wanted to be in his own apartment - safer, more secure, and more in charge.

Having found the right button, Sylar was hitting it repeatedly, listening as Peter's tone deepened at first and then started to choke up. He would come soon, at this rate, and the idea of that was spiraling Sylar up even faster. _Peter does not get to come just because he wants to. I'm in control here. I have some … value, right?_ Sylar slowed, changed his angle and leaned over to put his hands on the bed again, on either side of Peter. To his credit, Peter didn't complain of the interruption. He just sucked in air hard, getting his breath back.

Sylar pulled Peter's hand out from under him and for that act, Peter rewarded him with the most intense and raw expression of pure sex he'd ever seen. Peter, hair partly screening his face, twisted and curved his perfect, muscular back to look over his shoulder at him, parted lips swollen and darkened in passion as he looked to see what Sylar was doing - no objection, no complaint - only an open, willing acceptance of whatever Sylar did. Peter looked thoroughly fucked and completely shameless about it. Sylar stared, mouth agape for several seconds, barely breathing, until Peter turned away, waiting patiently.

Blinking from that vision of scorching hotness, Sylar reached underneath Peter. He took the man's member into his hand. It was hot, swollen and fleshy, so aroused that it was stiff against Peter's stomach. Sylar knew well how sensitive this was. If he'd had any doubts, Peter whimpered, shuddered and dropped his head and shoulders like he was praying. It was an especially profane analogy given the way Peter followed it by rocking backwards, fucking himself on Sylar's dick. As soon as Sylar adjusted his grip, Peter was fucking his hand, too. The arousal slammed back through Sylar's veins at that, at Peter using him to finish himself, pleasured front and back by _Sylar_ - not by himself.

The complete control Sylar had over Peter lit Sylar up inside. It ran all through him, leaving him tingling as Peter mewled, begging for more. Peter could only manage short jerks backward in the position, flexing that beautiful back. Sylar bent over him, pushing all the way inside as he bit him on the shoulder, tasting the perfection of his flesh and the faint salty tang of his skin. Peter arched and cried out, hands alternately splaying and fisting in the bedding - whether from the complete penetration or the bite was unclear. Sylar felt so high; he was so hard; his cock was aching. Every continuous wriggle of Peter's hips was nudging him closer to the edge. Peter was fucking _good_ in bed - even with Sylar's limited experience he could tell that.

He thought about Peter's face as he'd looked over his shoulder at him, mouth open so invitingly, looking to see what the person fucking him was going to do next. Peter was so handsome and so full of lust at that moment, that it was going to be burned into Sylar's memory forever if he had anything to say about it. He took his hand from Peter's cock and pushed Peter flat on the bed, wild to get all the way inside of him. He used both hands to brace himself as he pounded Peter's pliant ass hard. The lewd sound of his groin spanking Peter's bubble butt filled the apartment to the accompaniment of Sylar's harsh breathing and Peter's pleasured cries.

Peter was even more vocal now - so incredibly vocal, as he spread his legs in an eager effort to take Sylar even deeper. Sylar bent and bit him again, this time hard enough to leave a bruise. Peter's sharper cry of pain sent Sylar's peak crashing through him in a sudden, blinding surge. Sylar made the first significant sound of pleasure he'd made so far: a short, deep groan as he released inside of Peter. His head was spinning with the exertion, as he'd given it his all for a little bit there. A few seconds passed in silence as he reveled in the sensation of absolute fulfillment. No matter what happened, no matter how bad Peter judged Sylar's performance, he'd still gotten to fuck Peter. After all this time and everything between them - he'd still taken a willing Petrelli to bed. An oh-so-smug grin silently lit up Sylar's features.

Panting, he started to disengage, but Peter said, "No! Stay there, please."

_What? I was done._ He did as directed though, feeling himself softening as a natural reaction. There wasn't much he could do about that.

Peter pushed back against him, reaching under himself to stroke fast and roughly.

_Ah! He didn't … Oh, crap,_ Sylar thought as he realized he should have made sure Peter came first. The smugness evaporated into worry as he began to think of the future. _What do I do if he doesn't come at all now? What will __**he**__ do if he doesn't come? Will he be done with me? I __**liked**__ this - I want to do it again sometime! Should I be jerking him off now? Was I supposed to hold off until he did? Of course I should have held off, dammit! There must be some sort of etiquette for this, like, an order. I fucked up. I did it wrong. Got carried away. If he wasn't so fucking hot and sexy and noisy, that wouldn't have happened. Little slut._

In a mere handful of seconds, Peter's toes curled and his muscles began to stand out sharper. His skin flushed and beaded with sweat as he danced along the edge of orgasm. Sylar watched, realizing the opportunity to do something to fix his faux pas was gone - Peter had taken matters into his own hand. With a single, final, full-bodied jerk he climaxed, making an inarticulate noise into the bed.

Sylar felt stuck. He'd flubbed it, somehow, and he didn't know what to do next. _I … did bad. Does this mean I'm bad in bed? Inconsiderate? Selfish? He won't have me again? He might as well just be alone, after all._ He looked down at the pair of bite marks on Peter's shoulder - one faint, the other quite clear, and felt ashamed yet thrilled at the same time. He'd performed so much better with Janice, but then again, he hadn't had his own buttons being pushed. It had all been a head-trip on Matt, rather than this, which was sort of a head-trip on himself, and for that he blamed Peter. Or at least he wanted to.

Peter, with a great languorous slowness, disengaged from him, crawled up the bed a little, pulled his knees up, and rolled in place so he faced Sylar now.

_Convenient,_ Sylar managed to think. _He's covering up the wet spot. _Sylar remained still, basically holding in place until he figured out how badly he'd screwed things up. _Am I making him lie in the wet spot? Should I make him move? __**He**__ put himself there … Or maybe he's just gross enough that he doesn't care._

Peter reached up and hooked a hand behind Sylar's neck. He pulled him down, kissing him deeply and repeatedly, servicing his mouth the way a good lover had sex with you - thorough, intense, finding your pleasure spots and dancing between them until you had no choice but to respond. _He seems happy. Oh, God, he seems happy. This is good, too. I like this. Jesus, Petrelli!_ Sylar kissed back as Peter tangled his legs around Sylar's and pulled his whole body onto him, wrapping his arms around Sylar as their mouths engaged over and over. He loved the taste - foreign, human, hot and wet. He loved the feel of the stubble around Peter's lips as his own larger ones occasionally slipped the bounds and brushed over it. It was unique among Sylar's lovers, to date.

Sylar's head was spinning, but he kept at it until Peter finally let him rise for air. Breathing hard, he separated, rolling off to the side. He faced his partner and caught his breath. Peter shut his eyes and smiled, basking in the afterglow. His lips were still puffy, now shining with saliva, and his skin still flushed. _Sexy. Head to toe. Please let me be with you again. You liked that, didn't you? I hope you did. I hope I measure up. Jesus Christ, if this is how you are in bed, then I understand how you got all the fucking experience! If my dick was up for it, I'd fuck you again right now._

For a while they lay quietly next to one another, bodies cooling, breathing slowing, hearts no longer racing. Sylar began to review the session in his head, trying to learn from it what he should do next time, if he was so lucky as to have a next time. _Overall, I think he liked that. He liked it long and slow, in and out, at first at least. He liked me hitting his prostate. He likes moving around on his own and maybe he likes telling me what to do. He didn't mind me touching him - his dick. He didn't mind me denying him - at least not that I could tell. He seemed to really get off on it when I fucked him hard. There might be specific areas I need to pay attention to._

Sylar reached out and touched Peter on the shoulder, stroking one fingertip down the smooth, pale skin. Peter turned to him immediately, too much the empath to let even a simple touch go without response. Sylar gave him a brief, small smile and then went on touching. It would ruin the test if he told Peter what he was doing. There were many things to keep in mind - an excess of contact, by itself, would provoke a reaction, as would the speed of the touch. What Sylar wanted to know right now was location, not degree or speed, and so he kept his eyes on his hand instead of on Peter's, moved slowly and steadily, and hoped that Peter would oblige him by relaxing.

A moment later, Sylar's attempt at communication via body language worked. Peter sighed in acceptance and let his eyes slide mostly shut. Sylar stroked lightly down Peter's arm, noting a tiny twitch at the hollow of his elbow, but nothing on his bicep before or forearm after. When his touch came to Peter's hands, Peter turned them as if to hold his, opening his palm in invitation and holding his breath for a moment. Sylar moved on promptly. It was no surprise that hands brought about an immediate attempt to engage. He'd expected that.

He shifted closer, waiting a few beats for his subject to still again from the alertness that his increase in proximity caused. Sylar repressed the urge to shush Peter. That might artificially dull reactions. He stroked the man's nearly hairless torso - no reaction for abdomen and he didn't risk going too low for there was sure to be a reaction then. A small reaction for navel - Peter opened his eyes and looked, but Sylar declined to meet his gaze. Peter calmed again. But the upper chest … ah, Peter breathed faster, his eyes opened fully and he scanned Sylar's face continually, even as Sylar ignored him. Gooseflesh rose on Peter's arms. He jerked a little when Sylar touched one nipple.

And that … was enough to trip some trigger inside the empath. Peter raised up on his elbows and kissed. Sylar tried to parse out if it was the degree of touch - some accumulation?, or that specific area that had prompted Peter to be amorous again. This was all territory he hadn't had the chance to explore like this, before. Sylar supposed the experiment need not be considered finished just because Peter was lip-locking with him. It was quite entertaining and more than a little distracting, but Sylar could multi-task. He smoothed his hand over Peter's shoulder and neck as they kissed, gaining a small sound of approval as his hand reached the back of Peter's neck. He ran it up through the man's hair, which evoked a momentary push forward on Peter's part, kissing him harder. Sylar toyed with the hair without pulling, just fondling it over and over. It felt fantastic, but Peter wasn't giving him reactions anymore. He touched the scalp, then cradled the back of Peter's head.

Immediately, Peter rolled him onto his back and crawled on top of him. _Oh! Big response!_ He disentangled his hand and repeated the whole sequence again - rub shoulder, stroke back of neck, fondle hair, cradle back of head and it was definitely that last motion that did it because Peter reacted again, strongly, pushing into him and adjusting the set of his hips where he straddled him. Peter's pubic hair was scratchy against Sylar's dick and his ball sack was a spot of heat squashed against him in an equally intimate place. _Our balls are touching,_ Sylar thought with amusement. _So gay._

_Okay. Likes his head held._ Sylar brought his thoughts back to figuring Peter out. Both hands came up and held Peter's face to his. Peter shifted his weight and sent one hand to stroke himself, settling in over Sylar's own hips. Sylar worried. He didn't have an erection right now - clearly Peter did, and clearly Peter could feel him underneath him. _He's ready to go **again**? Am I supposed to be hard? Is he going to fuck me now? Shit! That wasn't part of the plan, the agreement. I didn't think this would be my-turn-his-turn! I can't say no. I don't think I can do anything …_

Peter noticed Sylar's apprehension, or his state of unarousal, or something, and started to pull away, his hand leaving his cock. Peter shifted to hands and knees, his eyes scanning over Sylar's face, trying to figure out what was going on.

_I can't put him off. I can't let him think I don't welcome every advance he makes. No hot-cold or he won't be as enthusiastic with me. I want him to think he doesn't need to second-guess me._ He reached up and pulled Peter back to him, holding the back of his head with one hand and sending the other to rub the back of his knuckles against Peter's nipples, putting what he'd already learned to good use. _Even if this means I have to let him fuck me. That's okay. I think. I think he'll be okay with me. If I can hold it together._

He made a fist in Peter's hair as the empath's clever tongue probed inside of his mouth. He'd already had the experience of Peter's oral mastery (_snigger_), and he submitted to this version of it almost as happily as he'd enjoyed the other. _He is such a complete slut. Thank God I didn't get stranded with someone who doesn't know their way around a bed. He'll treat me okay … I know he will, right?_ He worried about not measuring up, but at least he was dealing with someone willing to let him try. He worried more about what Peter was about to do.

Peter moaned a little, shifting his weight again to stroke himself. Testing the waters, Sylar let his own hand fall lower. The second his hand brushed Peter's, Peter moved to support himself with both hands, making tiny motions with his hips that Sylar couldn't help but read as plaintive. Just in case he didn't get it, Peter whined as they kissed.

_Oh … oh, yeah. Beg me, Petrelli._ Sylar's hand slipped around Peter's equipment, flinching a little at the unexpected slime at the tip. While yes, of course Sylar knew what that was there for, being quite familiar with his own anatomy even if he limited his explorations to the bare minimum, he still hadn't expected to get it on his hand right away. Peter pulled back and looked at him uncertainly.

Sylar smiled confidently, stroking up and down gently and smoothly. Inside, he was kicking himself. Peter was way, WAY more attentive than Maya, Elle, or Janice. He wasn't so sure how Peter stacked up against Lydia as that whole bout had been very weird. He had to be careful with his reactions here. "Tell me what you want me to do." Not that he particularly wanted to be told … well, actually, he wanted to **know**, he just didn't want to ask. He was asking _now_ mostly to allay Peter's suspicions about how much Sylar was into this. If he learned a little extra along the way, so much the better.

"You're doing great," Peter said, tilting his head back and shutting his eyes. Sylar's hand slipped from behind Peter's head to the front, caressing the cheek and jaw line, then slowly, ever-so-carefully, moving to Peter's throat. A moment later, Peter leaned into it.

_Oh, fuck me! No fucking way!_ Sylar thought in thrilled disbelief. His fingertips dug in slightly and one side of Peter's mouth curled up as he started to pant. _Kink jackpot, you naughty, dirty little thing!_ He adjusted his grip a fraction, being well familiar with how to strangle someone. It had been one of the first tricks he'd learned - with telekinesis, admittedly, but it was perfectly possible to do it with one's hands as well. He was careful just to restrict the airflow, not cut it off. He could feel Peter's pulse hammering away under his fingers - so much life in the palm of his hand, and Peter was putting it there so willingly.

Peter rocked his hips faster, so Sylar sped up his strokes, wishing he had leisure to test different patterns, but Peter didn't seem like he was going to last terribly long. Sylar glanced down at him, only now thinking about what that meant, given their position with Peter straddling him, dick over Sylar's belly. _He's going to come on me. The little shit's going to spunk right on me_. He looked back up at Peter's blissed out face, letting himself be served and his choking fetish indulged with a certainty of his own safety that was almost arrogant.

_Jeez, why don't you just piss on me while you're at it, Petrelli?_ Sylar didn't know how to take this. He was about to be not only marked as territory, but as a sexual possession, a landing zone for Peter's sperm. It was disgusting; it was unfathomably hot. His fingers tightened a little on Peter's throat and Peter gave a shudder, his hands moving to Sylar's shoulders, gripping him in passion as he rose up off his body. Seeing him respond and submit so clearly gave Sylar a weird twist in his gut and a throb in his cock. Peter wasn't acting insultingly dominant. If anything, he was in complete submission to Sylar bringing him off. Sylar's ideas of who was on "top" in this scene were completely muddled. All the neat lines were blurred.

In any case, Peter pressed forward hard enough that his airway really was endangered. A moment later, he gasped, stiffened and spurted hot, viscous liquid onto Sylar's stomach. The smell of Peter's sweat and musk wafted through the air anew and Sylar breathed it in greedily, a little repulsed and a lot fascinated by the scent. _Well._ Sylar stared down at the mess, as Peter pulled his neck back from Sylar's faltering grip. Sylar's hand fell to the bed. His other was still holding Peter's softening dick. _I let that happen. I … want him to … want me. What does this mean? Does he still respect me? Am I used goods now?_

Peter leaned forward, hands on the mattress on either side of Sylar's head. Sylar suddenly realized he was the subject of really intent, close scrutiny as Peter observed him through a screen of floppy bangs. Sylar looked up at him and thought he needed to smile and put on a thoughtlessly happy false face. But some shred of matching empathy in the back of his brain, working in conjunction with his own intelligence and knowledge of Peter, told him not to bother. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind: "Do you like me?"

Peter answered immediately, completely serious: "Yes."

Sylar looked back down at the whitish fluid on his stomach, trying to settle the uneasiness he felt at seeing such a substance on him. _He didn't fuck me._ And he felt grateful, because he wasn't ready for that and maybe Peter knew that. Because Peter had had (more than) a few partners, and he was an empath, and he wasn't in any hurry. _He didn't fuck me … yet … but he liked it enough that he wants to make me his. Is that it?_ His gaze went to Peter's - Peter, who was watching every feature of his face like he was trying to memorize it. _He wouldn't want to make me his if he didn't think I was worth having._ The uncertainty cleared as he figured it out. Sylar tilted his head and puckered his lips slightly, an expression that brought Peter in to kiss him immediately, just as he'd suspected it would. _He wants me. He really does._


	4. Paint the Town Red and Second Base Coat

**Paint the Town Red **

**(Sylar's POV)**

Sylar and Peter were leaned up against a concrete planter, admiring their morning's work. They'd been painting – Peter's idea, of course, but Sylar was far more pleased with the outcome than he'd expected. He'd grumped about it at first, but followed along because why the hell not? He might as well. Neither of them tried to paint people, not wanting to test the world's limits, but they happily painted something abstract. It was different and way more interesting to look at than a blank wall.

Sylar had helped Peter hump the paint cans, brushes, rollers and ladders out to the smoothest wall they could find and then they'd gotten started. Peter's portion of the 'art' had ended up as a series of jagged, vivid green lightning bolts and irregular, blue stars. Despite the raging asymmetry of Peter's accomplishments, Sylar found himself liking them. His mood had lightened as the project had worn on and his own carefully plotted spirals, arcs and cubist shapes had taken form in red and yellow and black. They'd started joking with each other. Even Sylar's snark had become friendly.

At the moment Sylar was smiling up at the mural, pleased and relaxed for the first time in a very long time. When they had finished, at least with the first coat, they'd fetched sandwiches and returned. Food eaten, at the moment they were still resting and appreciating the results of their joint labor. Or at least Sylar was. Peter's attention had strayed to his companion. He was looking at Sylar rather intently. Of course it caught Sylar's attention to be looked at, with that creepy out-of-the-corner-of-your-eye awareness of being observed.

Sylar kept looking forward at the wall though, until he saw Peter's hand lift towards him. At that, Sylar's head turned fractionally and his eyes shifted to Peter. The beginnings of a gesture towards Sylar's face warranted a direct look, but Peter demurred immediately. He blinked and dropped his hand, but kept regarding Sylar – just a little less intently than before. He was certainly being open about it. Sylar let his face look questioning, wondering what Peter had been about to do. Peter's lips thinned and he leaned away a little, his eyes tracking over Sylar's hair and the side of his face with an expression that looked a lot like … longing?

_He was about to touch me. Touch my face, maybe, I think. Do I have paint on my face?_ He could feel his skin was tight in a few places, so actually he'd be surprised if he _didn't_ have paint on him, but what the hell was Peter intending to achieve by touching him? It was way more familiarity than they had between them, ebullient mood or no. Confused by Peter's withdrawal and with the intention of forcing the issue, Sylar snorted and said, "What are you waiting for, permission?"

Peter finished drawing away, breathing out something that sounded an awful lot like, 'yeah', but was so quiet Sylar wasn't completely sure. He didn't think Peter had meant it to be overheard. _What was he going to do? He wouldn't be acting strange if he was just going to point out some paint in my hair. _He let his eyes burn holes in the side of Peter's head while Peter tried to act like Sylar wasn't staring. _What if he __**was**__ going to touch me? Shouldn't I … let him?_ Sylar dropped his gaze as he thought about how to arrange that, then glanced back up briefly. "Permission granted, then." He said it softly, but they were right by each other. He used an intimate tone, almost a whisper.

Peter kept looking at the mural for long enough that under other circumstances Sylar would have become bored and given up. But this … if Peter had been about to touch him, make a pass at him, whatever … that gained Sylar's sharp attention for however long it took. Was Peter's incredible resistance finally crumbling? Sylar had made offers and motions, each more overt than the last. Peter had acted tempted from time to time, but he'd ultimately always declined. Clearly it wasn't that Peter didn't _want_.

Eventually, Peter turned slowly, shifting his weight forward and putting his legs down, twisting his body so that he sort of faced Sylar. Peter's eyes drew up even with Sylar's with an expression that was unmistakably … interested. He _wanted_ all right.

_Oh! Fuck me. He __**IS**__ going to touch me! _Sylar held perfectly still as Peter lifted his hand again and reached for him, slowly … and hesitantly. Sylar kept his gaze steady, letting his eyes widen and his face relax into what looked calm or neutral. He didn't want to look too interested or desperate – that would make Peter self-conscious. He didn't want to look challenging or judgmental or upset, much less hostile. Peter's green-stained fingertips, just the very tips of them, touched Sylar's hair over his forehead. Peter swallowed nervously, eyes flitting between the tentative contact and Sylar's face.

_Oh please God, Peter, don't freak out on me. I don't know what the fuck I did today to make you feel friendly enough towards me to do this …_ Sylar leaned his head forward slightly, tilting it slowly into Peter's touch, and dropping his gaze so Peter wouldn't feel 'watched'.

Peter's fingers skimmed so lightly over Sylar's hair, hardly displacing it at all – just … feeling it. Sylar realized his breathing had accelerated quite on its own, something that wasn't allowed. He tried to ramp it back down. _Don't look too interested. Just look neutral, sort of neutral-pleased, like this is normal. Let him do it. Please do it, Peter. But why now? I just don't get it. How do I make you do this in future? What is it I did today that made this okay for you?_ But Sylar was getting touched and that was what mattered more than the mystery. Peter's fingers came to the side of the nape of Sylar's neck and he toyed, just for a moment, with the ends of Sylar's hair, brushing them back and forth.

Sylar's chest was tight. Goose flesh pimpled his forearms and frankly, he wanted to moan. To have gone for years without seeing anyone at all, and then so long trapped here with Peter as an enemy, to have suddenly catapulted to the status of being an object of something like affection, or at least someone Peter was willing to use as a distraction, a friendly distraction … it was a big deal. It was _**huge**_. Sylar was embarrassed at how desperate he was, that the lightest petting made him ache inside. Sylar fought the urge to swallow noisily and even pant, because he had a role to play here if he wanted this to continue and oh my God did he ever want this to continue, for as far as Peter was willing to take it.

Peter's hand swept forward slowly, letting just the pads of his index and middle finger touch Sylar's cheekbone. It was skin-to-skin contact and this time Sylar didn't completely stop the sucking in of breath that he did. He leaned into it just a bit more, trying to gauge how responsive he should be and walk that fine line between 'enough and encouraging' and 'too much and off-putting'.

Peter's hand dropped to under Sylar's jaw and touched with a little more pressure, urging him to lift his head. Sylar did, bringing his eyes up as well. He adopted an open, vulnerable expression that was maybe even a little needy. He'd used it a time or two with Peter before and it had never failed to move the empath. That it hadn't moved him _enough_ wasn't so much that Sylar would risk trying something else.

Peter chewed his lower lip as though with indecision. _All or nothing, _Sylar thought, letting his lips part slightly, trying to make the invitation as clear as he could. _Come on, Peter. Come on. I won't bite unless you want me to._ Peter shifted and turned further, coming onto his knees with one hand on the planter. Sylar felt somewhat trapped and uncomfortable with Peter looming over him as he was now, but he swallowed that down and tilted his face up to meet Peter's. The other man came in slowly, face nearing his, eyes darting across Sylar's visage, alert, it seemed, for the least sign of threat. _He's still afraid of me. He doesn't know how I'll take this._ It was kind of flattering. Peter was making a lot of assumptions and in a way he was throwing caution to the wind, but he was still hesitant, trying over and over to read Sylar's receptivity and mood.

Sylar puckered a little, hoping Peter actually carried through, because if he didn't, this was going to be crushingly embarrassing. But no, Peter seemed pretty fucking determined and it wasn't like Peter would get out of it unscathed if he did back off now – unscathed ego-wise, that is. Sylar wouldn't "do" anything to him, because anything retaliatory would make it less likely that Peter might try this again later.

As Peter's face neared his, Sylar noticed Peter was breathing harder, his chest rising and falling as fast as though he'd been running. Peter was tense, uncertain, and afraid, but he was doing it anyway. Peter's brows quirked and drew together in an expression that trumped Sylar's hands-down for 'vulnerable' and added a healthy dollop of 'scared' to go with it. Sylar made absolutely no other motions, whatsoever. He let Peter set the pace entirely.

Their lips touched with a light brush that was so faint it was ticklish. Sylar suppressed his urge to twitch his lips away and instead parted them even more. Peter turned his head so their noses didn't bump as he came in a second, more definite time. His lips pressed against Sylar's. They were warm and soft and gentle, moving only slightly, but it was a real kiss even if it seemed like Peter was petrified to be giving it. And then Peter made a tiny sound in the back of his throat, like an abbreviated sigh, or the word 'huh' at a high pitch. That sound shot through Sylar like electricity, prompting life in all sorts of places. It was a sound of barely restrained desire and there seemed to be no reason why Peter would make that noise unless he was a lot more turned on than Sylar had suspected.

_Is he about to come in his pants over … this? (Me? Over __**me?**__ Seriously?)_ Peter kissed him again, kind of forced and hurried, then backed off suddenly with a nervous, but happy smile. He chewed at his lip again and rocked back onto knees and the curled-under soles of his feet. Sylar let his eyes drop, discreetly checking out the obvious fullness at the front of Peter's jeans. _Oh yes. That … that is an erection. Oh. My. God. I've got him!_

Sylar's eyes shifted up to Peter's face. The empath was looking over at their collection of paint cans, breathing deeply and clearly trying to calm down. A look of pure, predatory glee swept across Sylar's face, but only for a moment.

* * *

><p><strong>Second Base Coat <strong>

**(Peter's POV)  
><strong>

Peter and Sylar reclined in front of their masterpiece - a mural that was an impressive six feet high and twenty feet long. It had taken an outrageous amount of paint, but less time than Peter had expected. So far they'd only applied the one coat to it. It would need another or two to be really vibrant. Peter was looking forward to it, having found his partner in crime to be especially friendly, warm and engaged through the process of their vandalizing. Peter had really enjoyed the day so far and the easy camaraderie they'd managed to share during painting.

He breathed deeply, thinking about the goofy smile Sylar had sent his way as Peter had outlined where he would put a three foot wide bolt of green lightning. He recalled the absorbed, utterly focused look Sylar had given his own project, carefully measuring and marking off precise lines and arcs with a seriousness that far exceeded that required of their morning lark. Sylar's full, unadulterated attention was definitely something to see. His focus was complete and pure, blocking out all the rest of the world except for this one thing, or person.

Sylar was usually focused on Peter with a laser-beam intensity that made Peter defensive and off-balance. But today had been different. Sylar's eyes were on the mural still, taking it in as they let their lunches settle before working on the second coat. Peter glanced down at the orderly pile of sandwich wrappers weighted with a stone between them. When he raised his eyes, he let them run from Sylar's paint-speckled forearms over the curled up sleeves of his shirt, thence on to his strong jaw, already darkening with faint stubble.

Peter exhaled slowly, indulging his gaze with the scenic route. Sylar had well-defined cheekbones even if one was smeared with white paint; a big, masculine chin; generous lips the likes that Peter had seen on very few men, but would have looked totally out of place on a woman; a nose whose dimensions lent prominence to Sylar's features and balanced out the striking, devilishly handsome brows that shadowed Sylar's most astonishingly handsome trait: his eyes. Those eyes were gorgeous. Peter had seen them so dark as to be made of coal and once so brightly lit that they looked almost golden. Usually they were a rich brown and so alive, so clear, so attentive and alert and perceptive. If they were windows into the soul, then Sylar's soul was a vast and multi-faceted thing.

Sylar had noticed. What Peter registered was 'Sylar has noticed me', even though what he discerned less consciously was that Sylar's breathing had become shallower, his body had stiffened just a tiny bit, his face had lost the mobility it had held a moment before, and his eyes, that had previously been sweeping the painting at will, now confined themselves to a small area. Sylar was pretending not to have noticed, yet his pretense was clear. Peter couldn't have told someone exactly how he knew this, but he knew it.

_He's __**letting**__ me look at him._ It was generous of him, of Sylar, to allow that. Peter appreciated it. He didn't get the opportunity very often - hardly at all, really. No, actually he couldn't off-hand remember a time when Sylar had been aware of his observation and not challenged Peter over it, one way or the other. Generally it was just a look in return with eyes slightly narrowed and brows pulled down in promise of a threat that would get stronger if Peter did not immediately defer. So Peter did. It wasn't his place to be looking at Sylar like that, despite Sylar's approaches and flirting and overt invitations. He invited, but then the slightest action on Peter's part - even just looking at Sylar 'wrong' - provoked a defensive or even apprehensive response that had Peter back-pedaling as fast as he could.

But now Sylar was letting him look. Peter looked at the man's hair - long, fine and changeable with the light just like his eyes. Right now the noon sun brought out the golden highlights and made apparent every strand. It was a bit of a mess at the moment. Peter wondered what it felt like and just how far Sylar's generosity extended. Oh, but if he could have a fantasy come true, Sylar would be asleep and unaware and Peter could touch him without suffering for it, without waking the man. His hand rose without him thinking about it, and the spell broke. Sylar's eyes swiveled in that creepy way he had, without moving any other part of his body.

Peter dropped his hand immediately, but other than a brief glance to meet Sylar's eyes and acknowledge him (also to subconsciously note Sylar's constricted pupils - a clear sign of 'back off' even if Peter chose to ignore it), he kept looking. The looking had been allowed. Maybe Sylar would just look away and let Peter go back to it. Sylar did not. Disappointment thinned Peter's lips and he sighed a little at what he could look at and not touch, and, apparently, not even look at for too long without causing a problem, because Sylar was still staring at him for having the boldness to not turn away.

Peter leaned back and turned to look at the mural, face blank of interest in it. Sylar snorted disdainfully at having successfully asserted who got to look at who around here and sneered, "What are you waiting for, permission?"

Peter's brows lifted slightly and he shifted back to face straight ahead. Dejected and frustrated, he breathed out, "Yeah," not caring if Sylar heard him or not. It was rhetorical anyway. Sylar glared at him. Peter could sense the stare and feel the way it made his skin prickle, like it always did. It felt like the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up, all the more because they were less than an arm's length from one another, proximity forced by the narrowness of the concrete planter they were leaning against. Before, the closeness had felt warm and companionable. Now it felt claustrophobic, but Peter refused to move away. Yet.

He was aware of the shift in Sylar's posture, breathing and sightline as Sylar backed down from the aggression he was emoting. Just like before, it was something Peter sensed organically rather than intellectually. He just knew the pressure had lifted. A moment later, Sylar said quietly and gently, "Permission granted, then."

Peter thought about that, his eyes unfocused and straight ahead. He tried to weigh whether to take Sylar seriously or not. He rolled around in his head that soft tone of voice and the more relaxed posture Sylar had adopted - Peter could see it out of the corner of his eye, the way Sylar's feet moved a little now, the micro-sounds of his deeper breathing, the faint shift of fabric against the sidewalk. Sylar wasn't as still and tightly coiled as he had been a few moments before. It translated to 'serious' in Peter's head.

Having reached that conclusion, he worried over what to do about it. It was an offer. Sylar had made a number of those, usually with an attitude like he was throwing down a gauntlet or presenting Peter with a prize - neither of which provoked the least interest in Peter. It had never been quite like this. This was … more open, more relaxed, less likely it seemed to get Peter popped in the mouth, strangled to death, or whatever other intense emotional reaction an over-agitated Sylar might have.

It didn't read so strongly of 'danger', like all the other times had. Peter focused on the painting and on an intricately interlocking set of spirals that made something of an infinity symbol now that he looked at it. He thought about the way Sylar had held his brush over that part, making short, careful strokes. Peter wanted that attention on him. He wanted to matter. He _wanted_.

Summoning his courage, he turned slowly to face Sylar again, letting his own interest show through as clearly as he could and watching for Sylar's response to that. Aggression? Indifference? Contempt? Fear? Even the least reluctance would have put Peter off and he scanned for it assiduously. Sylar went still again, but his skin pinked a bit and his pupils dilated. That was definitely **not** a 'back off' signal.

Peter's own breathing was speeding up fast as tension coiled inside of himself. He raised his hand once more and extended it slowly, still watching for response. Sylar's eyes widened as Peter reached for him and his face relaxed, brows lifting slightly. Peter wasn't thrilled at being stared at, but he took Sylar's expression as a qualified invitation - assuming Peter understood the qualifications, which he didn't, but he kept on anyway. He swallowed nervously as he touched just the very tips of his fingers to Sylar's hair, just enough to make contact. He looked to Sylar's face, because he'd now taken an irretrievable step - touching with interest. He'd established, definitely, that he was willing to touch. Did the invitation include that?

Very slowly, Sylar tilted his head into the petting. More importantly, he looked down, accepting the contact and asking for more. Peter breathed more heavily, feeling almost light-headed with tension, and blinked. He let his fingers follow the course of Sylar's hair back, shifting a little to lean closer, noting that Sylar didn't pull away. On the contrary, Sylar's own breathing was coming faster.

Peter toyed with the ends of Sylar's hair. It felt lovely even if it still carried the residual stiffness from his hair gel. Peter brought his hand back to Sylar's cheek, touching along the upper edge of a smear of white paint. Sylar sucked in a short gasp and leaned into it more, still looking down. Peter could feel himself stiffening within his jeans. Sylar's responsiveness was totally doing it for him. He was barely touching the man and yet Sylar acted like it was the most sensual of caresses. Plus, he wasn't pinning Peter with his gaze anymore. He was submitting himself to whatever Peter would provide, without Sylar making demands, setting conditions or issuing challenges.

Peter dropped his hand under Sylar's chin and lifted it. Sylar's face was open, beseeching and begging. He'd used that expression before and it **always** got to Peter even though he knew it was false. False insomuch as it was an assumed expression, deliberately cultivated for effect. What got to Peter today was knowing **why** Sylar was using it. Fake or not didn't matter - Sylar was communicating to Peter that he wanted him and the message was coming through loud and clear.

Peter was hard, feeling heavy in his groin. He chewed his lower lip, doubt creeping in about the wisdom of what he was about to do. He was terrified of the man and he had to admit he wasn't sure how he'd feel about this later, when he wasn't looking into Sylar's plaintive face. But Sylar wasn't the only one with needs. They drove Peter on now, without any of the usual speed bumps and full-stops that Peter experienced when Sylar was the one initiating.

Sylar's mouth opened slightly and Peter was decided. That was just too much of an invitation to pass up in his current state. That was all it was - an invitation, not a demand. Peter rose to his knees and caught his weight with a hand on the planter, over Sylar's head. That Sylar didn't flinch from that, from Peter so clearly taking the dominant role, heartened him. Peter bent to bring his lips to Sylar's, going slower as Sylar turned his face up to meet him. Peter paused for a last moment, feeling Sylar's breath against his face, giving a last second for Sylar to demand the control that was so important to Sylar. Peter had no idea how they were going to negotiate that between them because Peter was so fucking scared of what Sylar might do if he had it.

But Sylar looked genuinely willing to surrender that for the moment, in exchange for what Peter was promising. He puckered his lips as though to reach for Peter's, but refrained from moving his head up. He left it to Peter to pick when and if they kissed. Peter's lips felt hot to himself and he could feel every puff of Sylar's breath against them. He felt like he was straining at his pants. He felt dizzy and like he was beginning to sweat. Fear and desire warred within him but he closed those last few inches and thank God Sylar did not so much as twitch because Peter would have bolted if he had.

His first attempt at a kiss was more attempt than kiss, with Peter pulling back immediately. He felt like every muscle in his body was being contracted all at the same time. He was so tense it was painful. He took a deep breath, tried to calm his nerves, and did it right the second time. He still kissed only lightly. He was so wound up he wondered if, for the first time in his life, he might come from doing no more than kissing someone. His throat made a noise without consulting him at all, prompting him to clamp down immediately on what was almost a whimper.

Sylar jerked slightly at the sound and kissed back with desire. Peter pulled away, then changed his mind. Worried that Sylar might interpret the withdrawal as a disapproval of Sylar's response, he kissed him again, quickly and nervously, then pulled back with an awkward, semi-relieved smile. Peter rocked back onto his knees and feet, looking off to the side and trying to calm himself._ I did it. I did it. I did it. It's okay. He's not mad. It's okay. Everything's okay._

He was breathing hard like he'd run a race. Sylar was looking up at him - he could see that in his peripheral vision, along with a brief flash of white as Sylar grinned and then fixed his face. Peter smiled slowly, glad that Sylar was happy. He imagined Sylar was thinking something along the lines of '_Score!_' or '_I'm going to get laid for sure, now!_', neither of which seemed all that inappropriate or insulting to Peter.

Thinking himself sufficiently calmed to at least talk, Peter glanced down at his companion and said, "So, do you want to do that second base now?" Sylar froze completely, eyes fixed on Peter, who mentally reviewed what he'd said. "Coat! Coat! I meant that second _coat _of paint! Jeez!"


	5. Casual Touches

"Political protest doesn't accomplish anything, Peter. Direct action does."

They were standing on the street talking about nothing, really, just talking to hear each other's voices. Peter frowned at Sylar's pronouncement, but his attention was caught by the man's grimace as Sylar reached back over his shoulder with one long arm, elbow in the air. He scratched at his back briefly, then grunted and gave it up, twisting his arm behind him and reaching up with it. From the half-snarl on Sylar's face, he still wasn't able to reach the annoying patch of skin.

There was that magical spot in the middle of the back that was impossible for most people to reach. When it itched, there was not a lot a person could do about it but endure the irritation. Maybe they could rub themselves on a building, which was even more undignified than Sylar's current struggles, or if they had a backscratcher, they could use that.

Peter walked around behind Sylar, prompting the man to straighten and yank his hand out from behind himself. Maybe he'd thought Peter was going to grab his wrist and wrestle him down, because that position **did** make it easy to get an immobilizing hold on him. But that wasn't Peter's intention.

Sylar's hands hung loosely at his sides as the other man breathed carefully and turned his head just slightly as Peter moved behind him. He was hyper-alert, but for nothing. Peter matter-of-factly reached up and scratched the center of Sylar's back, curling his fingers enough to get his blunt nails into play. Sylar gave a faint shiver at the frisson of sensation.

"Do I have the right spot?" Peter asked softly, aware that Sylar's reaction was taking this out of the realm of friendly acquaintance and to an intimacy that Peter wasn't quite sure he was comfortable with. Sylar didn't answer, so Peter expanded his circle, scratching thoroughly and a little harder. "I know that really sucks when you can't quite get that spot there in the middle. There's no reason why we can't help each other out sometimes."

Peter paused, his fingers flexing slightly so the pads of his fingertips were against Sylar's back, feeling the warmth of his body through the shirt and undershirt the man wore. Sylar's breath pulled in just a little too fast. Peter felt the urge to touch a lot more than he already was. Instead, he pulled his hand away and walked off several feet, sitting on the curb of the street. "Protesting at least attracts the attention of the media, and sometimes that's all that needs to be done," he said, casually continuing the conversation they'd had before.

* * *

><p>Peter had won their latest fight, which he of course felt bad about. Like most of their skirmishes, it had been stupid, but that apparently didn't stop either of them from having them. He tried to tell himself it was the guilt that motivated him when he got up and walked over to the other man, asking, or rather saying, "Let me take a look at you. I want to make sure you're okay."<p>

Sylar frowned up at him, eyes narrowing slightly as he obviously questioned Peter's motives. It was silly, so Peter gave him a warm, friendly smile to put him at ease and casually brushed Sylar's hair back from his forehead. Peter threaded it back, thinking about how nice that felt - all the lovely, silken strands. He crouched a little, ignoring Sylar's sudden shift in expression to forced neutrality and let the fingers of his right hand drift across Sylar's forehead as he brushed the left back through the man's hair a second time, and then a third.

Peter touched the knot over Sylar's eye. It had bled, but it wasn't hot to the touch. "This isn't fevered. I don't think it's going to infect. It seems to be healing fine." His fingers ghosted across Sylar's temple to caress his cheekbone, palpating gently as he petted the man's head with his other hand. "This is definitely not broken. Sometimes I wonder if something about being here makes our faces tougher than they should be. What with the way we beat on each other, we've been lucky nothing worse has happened than that time I broke my hand."

Speaking of which, he let his not-too-long-ago-broken right hand trail down Sylar's cheek to his jaw. There was another bump there, which hadn't directly been Peter's fault. Sylar had fallen and hadn't caught himself well. Aware that it might be sensitive, Peter's touch was light. "I'm sorry I hurt you," he murmured. "We shouldn't be beating on each other." He petted Sylar's hair again.

He looked at Sylar's eyes, finally, taking in the man's expression. It brought home to Peter that he was a lot physically closer here to Sylar that he'd realized, having leaned in a lot during the examination. He swallowed and pulled back. "I think you'll be fine," he said in a more normal tone of voice, standing. He nodded to Sylar, or to himself, or to no one, and walked off, stopping where he was turned away three-quarters and only barely able to see the other man. Peter's subconscious was screaming at him, but he was pretty good at ignoring that when he wanted to. Right now, he couldn't quite put his finger on why, but he really, _really_ wanted to ignore it.

* * *

><p>Sylar sat down on the couch very nearly right against Peter. He was no more than a couple inches away. He was angry about how much Peter had been touching him up and how little he was allowed to respond, and so with the entire other end of the couch and a dozen chairs to sit in, Sylar passive aggressively set himself down on Peter's end and crowded him. <em>Take that, you bastard!<em>

He knew the trick to this was to act casual, like it hardly mattered at all, like Peter wasn't even really there. So he opened up his book immediately, settling back and pretending to begin to read. Two could play at this game.

Peter, for his part, had looked up when Sylar approached, but the lack of eye contact had prevented any comment or address. After Sylar claimed his space, a little too assertively perhaps, Peter held very still for a long moment. Sylar breathed steadily, forcing his eyes along the line of text in his book while he was inwardly poised to respond to the inevitable reaction. Were there positions reversed, if he were dealing with himself, this would be the most dangerous period. Or … no, actually Sylar knew himself well enough to know he wouldn't have waited this long. Pretty much as soon as Peter's ass hit the couch that close he would have been doing something because getting this close and being this obvious about it was crossing a line.

Peter wasn't him though, and his reactions didn't always make sense to Sylar, which was the whole reason why he was over here metaphorically poking at the man. Peter shifted, wriggling almost in his seat - a motion that entailed his knee perhaps accidentally touching Sylar's thigh before Peter sighed, relaxed, and turned back to his own book like nothing at all unusual was going on. Certainly he didn't act like his territory or personal space had just been invaded.

Sylar let his eyes slide to the side and observed the other man. Peter didn't look resentful, uncomfortable or much of anything other than content. _Content? He's fucking content? I had the whole fucking room to be in and he's happy that I'm …_ He thought about all those touches Peter had given him. It occurred to Sylar that what he had intended as revenge was distinctly _**not**_.


	6. Munchausen Syndrome

"I have a cut here on my arm I'd like you to look at."

_Another one?_ "Let me see." Peter took Sylar's proffered wrist and rolled up his shirt sleeve. There was a thin inch long slice diagonally across his forearm, just above the wrist. It looked like a big paper cut. Sylar had been turning up with a lot of little injuries lately. They'd reached a critical mass, tipping the scale of probability for the level of accident-prone-ness that Peter would expect for someone of Sylar's care in personal conduct. "What happened?"

"I was using a screwdriver. It slipped."

"I'd think a screwdriver would have made a deeper gash." Doubt flavored Peter's voice as he looked at the cut and tried to imagine where the man's hands would have had to be to do that. It was possible, he supposed. But Peter had seen enough scars on cutters to know the back of the forearm wasn't an uncommon spot. It didn't feature any important veins, arteries or tendons and could be hidden with a long-sleeved shirt. The upper arm was even better, but a little harder to get to. Plus, forearm injuries were easier to explain – like, say, that you were using a screwdriver and slipped.

"There must have been a burr on it. It's not a big deal. If you don't care-" Sylar started to pull his arm away, but Peter's fingers tightened around his wrist and the man immediately desisted. Peter looked up at him, really intent, really trying to get into his head. In the last few weeks, he'd palpated more than his share of bruises, doctored scrapes, investigated bumps and in some cases just discussed ailments. There was something going on here. His hand around Sylar's forearm tingled warmly and Peter knew for sure this was a staged injury. He also knew that Sylar wanted his attention so desperately that it ached.

Peter swallowed and looked back down, trying to act casual. "No. You never know what might get infected. It's just that, you know, you might want to consider a safer occupation. Come on. I'll get my kit, but really, all you need is a band-aid." _At most. Actually even a band-aid is ridiculous, but if I don't, what will you do next? You're hurting yourself … to get my attention? To get a few minutes of me touching you, looking at you and … looking after you?_

"Sure. Of course," Sylar said cheerily, following Peter enthusiastically. His happiness confirmed Peter's suspicions, but the empath wanted to think about this before he started throwing around off-putting accusations of malingering. They'd settled into a routine for these matters, Peter realized as they walked into the rec room where he'd taken to keeping the medical kit. It had quickly become inconvenient to go up to his room for it.

Sylar knew his part to play as did Peter. They sat together on the couch so close their thighs and shoulders touched. Sylar was relaxed, pleased and warm towards him, his face open and receptive as he offered his hurt up for treatment. Peter cleaned the insignificant wound thoroughly before bandaging it, going through all the usual motions as he considered his realization about what Sylar was really trying to get from him. There was a ritual to the process and now that Peter thought about it, there was an awful lot of unnecessary closeness going on here – unnecessary from a medical standpoint, that is. Peter suspected it might not be so unnecessary from where Sylar was sitting.

Peter wouldn't deny his own feelings about it, either. He got to take care of someone, or at least pretend to, and he liked that. It made him feel important, useful and worthwhile. He wasn't sure what to do about Sylar hurting himself, but ignoring him might make the injuries Sylar inflicted that much worse – things Peter _couldn't_ ignore with any good conscience. Right now it wasn't a big deal. He was half-holding Sylar's hand with one of his while the other smoothed down the bandage. "There," he said, smiling. "All better." He looked over Sylar's face again, taking in features he'd more than once thought were very handsome. The current expression on the man's face was one of Peter's favorites.

"Thank you," Sylar said softly, making no move to remove himself from contact with his nurse. He looked back in response to Peter's inspection, his lips moving slightly like he wanted to speak, but couldn't quite bring himself to do it.

"No problem," Peter replied in a similar gentle tone. He breathed in slowly, thinking that he should probably give some thought to other ways to give Sylar what he needed -_ if _Peter wanted to give him what he needed. What Sylar wanted was so very human – it was basic. Peter studied his own emotions and found that he didn't blame or resent Sylar for his desires. Peter gave his the hand of his 'patient' a squeeze. After all, Sylar wasn't the only one with that need.


	7. Seduction and Seducation

**Seduction**

Sylar flopped down on the queen-sized bed dramatically, watching to see if his companion paid him any attention. Peter spared him a short glance, but then his gaze moved on, scanning over the room and the furniture therein. They were exploring apartments again, which had gone really well so far. Sylar was very pleased. He'd made Peter laugh several times and Peter had returned the favor. Neither of them were laugh-a-minute comedians, but they both appreciated humor as much as anyone else. They were loosening up with each other. Peter had told him a few more stories of his EMT experiences and Sylar had even shared a few carefully chosen, somewhat edited tales from his youth.

He was in a good mood at the moment - a little playful even. He smiled to himself. _So this is what its like to have a friend? It's nice. I'd rather have some benefits to go with that, though. I wonder if I could get him into bed with me? Hm … maybe I should try that in a literal sense and just see how far I get_. He didn't think he'd get very far, but he had the impression that he wouldn't ruin the friendly air between them unless he was deliberately provocative. "Come here," Sylar said, keeping his tone light but direct.

Peter came over to the side of the bed, looking down expectantly. For a man as stubborn as he was, he was also surprisingly cooperative if you managed to avoid hitting any of his buttons. While Sylar had figured out where most of those were that caused negative reactions, he was still in the dark about which levers to pull to get positive ones. It wasn't something Nathan had paid much attention to. The elder Petrelli had had the benefit of a more organic, mutual relationship from the start. Sylar was having to construct such an association from scratch.

Some quick calculations ran through Sylar's head, taking in the glances Peter directed to his body and the distances between them. If he had to guess, he'd say that Peter had just expressed a mild concern that Sylar was going to grab him, along with a little lurking suspicion about why he'd called him over. If he was going to lure Peter onto the mattress with him, he had to address both of those. Sylar rolled over, away from Peter, ending up on his stomach. He left his arms over his head and slid his hands under the pillow directly over his head. Face half pressed into the blanket, he let his voice take on a relaxed, carefree tone as he urged, "Come on." _Water's great, come on in!_

Peter eyed him, reinforcing the idea that he was suspicious and somewhat reluctant. Not a lot though. Sylar, face down, hands hidden and encumbered by the pillow, looked restful rather than poised. Peter was not a fan of mischief or unexpected actions from Sylar, which was too bad as Peter was prone to both himself. It was unfair, but hardly the only thing Peter could get away with that Sylar couldn't. For example, Peter could be (and occasionally was) flirty with him, but whenever Sylar reciprocated, Peter shut him down or rejected him. It has led Sylar to bypass the flirting and try some straight up propositions, but Peter had either ignored them or outright refused. It had served to squash Sylar's expectations.

Apparently Sylar's act of inoffensiveness won the empath over and he raised his leg to half climb on the bed. He left the other planted on the floor, half on, half off. _Oh yeah, almost there. _There was no particular reason why Sylar was trying to arrange this except to satisfy his own inward sense of humor. Previously in their relationship here, he'd collected up things like this with the intention of teasing the hell out of Peter with them, taunting and mocking. He'd saved them up and then realized there was no way he could express these things without offending and alienating his only companion. It had been a startling lesson in manners, one that Sylar had puzzled over for days while his nose stopped bleeding and lost the tenderness inflicted by Peter's fist. So - if he wanted people to like him, then he had to stop making fun of them.

Now, he kept his amusement and satisfaction very much to himself most of the time, or when he shared it, he did so in a more considerate manner. _How to get him on here the rest of the way?_ Sylar stretched, deciding to play like a bird faking a broken wing. He could pretend to be harmless if that was what it would take to lure Peter closer. Indeed, the closest he'd been to Peter had been when Sylar was too hurt to fight him off (or try much of anything). The rest of the time, Peter tended to keep his distance. "Mm," Sylar groaned a little. "I am _so_ sore."

"Really?" Peter asked, making a slightly furrowed brow at him. Which made sense - there was no reason for Sylar to be sore. They hadn't been doing any heavy lifting in their explorations, after all.

Sylar changed his story a bit. "I have a knot in my back or something. It's out of joint."

"That sucks," Peter agreed, pulling onto the bed entirely. Inwardly, Sylar crowed (_I'm in bed with Peter Petrel-li! I'm in bed with Peter Petrel-li! _his mind sing-songed in victory. _Mission accomplished. Now what?_) Peter asked, "How bad is it?"

The urge to exaggerate his imaginary infirmity was high, but he knew he needed to keep it within reasonable bounds. Otherwise Peter might question why they'd been at this exploration business for hours and only now was his back mentioned. Sylar huffed, "It's been getting worse all day. I think I must have reached for something wrong earlier." He shifted his shoulders back and forth, grimacing.

That was when Peter did something unexpected and far beyond what Sylar had been hoping or planning for. He'd just thought of getting Peter on the bed for the purposes of counting coup, of keeping an internal scorecard on what he could manipulate Peter into. He'd overlooked one of Peter's 'levers' for good behavior: letting Peter caretake on him and treat some medical condition. Peter scooted over across the bed to right next to him. Sylar stiffened in surprise, the tables having turned a little too fast. "It's okay," Peter murmured, and Sylar realized his tension made him look authentic rather than Machiavellian. "Let me see."

Sylar laid perfectly still as Peter put his hand on his back, first over his left (nearer) kidney, then up to between his shoulder blades, which was the limit of what he could reach without moving even closer. His fingers probed down Sylar's spine, feeling out the column of bones. Peter asked, "Where does it hurt?"

_Ah, shit_, Sylar thought, realizing he needed to make something up. "Just, uh, a little under my shoulder blades." _He's touching me!_ He enjoyed the sensation of Peter's fingers trailing down, apparently gauging the spacing of his vertebrae. _What if he doesn't feel anything out of place?_

"I can feel how tight your muscles are," Peter noted, reaching the small of his back.

Sylar barely resisted the contrarian's urge to relax, deciding in a split second that he was better off if Peter thought he was tense. _How far down is he going to go?_ But no - Peter stopped at the top of his jeans. For a moment, nothing else happened as Peter pulled his hand back to himself. Sylar slowly let out the breath he'd been holding. "What did you feel?" he asked cautiously.

"Nothing, but that doesn't mean it's not there. I'd probably only be able to tell a severe spinal injury. I'm not a chiropractor. I … I don't know. Some people can tell those microslips by touch, but I never have."

_Ah, good for me then. He believes me._ "Yeah. Yeah, well, it still hurts," Sylar added, feeling the need to grump a little to more firmly establish his story. Again, though, he was tugging on that 'caregiving' lever for Peter, who put his hand approximately where Sylar had said it hurt.

"Right here?"

"Um, well, kind of _around _there, yeah," Sylar hedged, wondering if Peter was going to try to give him some manner of adjustment. The anticipation of receiving some sudden shove or thrust by the heel of Peter's hand kept him tense, taking short breaths.

To his renewed surprise, instead Peter splayed his fingertips, put a firm but comfortable degree of pressure behind them, and rubbed the area in a circular motion. "Is this okay?"

_**YES!**_ "Yeah," Sylar said breathily. _He's not just touching me, he's __**rubbing**__ me! That's … that's like a caress! Oh my God, Peter, I'm going to have back problems forever if this is what it gets me._

Peter shifted again, getting right next to him so much that Sylar could feel the occasional brush from Peter's thigh. Peter bent over him, bringing both hands to bear on either side of his spine, rubbing slowly and firmly. Sylar let his eyes roll up in their sockets at how good that felt. There was nothing wrong with his back and he wouldn't know a good massage from a bad one, but what was so thrilling was that he was getting the attention, the contact and the gentleness at all. Peter had quite a range of physical expression, a lot of it including direct contact with someone. Most of the contact with Sylar had been on the negative end of the spectrum, with blows of a great variety, all painful.

He knew Peter could be kind and gentle, tender even. He'd seen it mostly in Nathan's memories, in the obscene degree to which the two brothers had touched each other. Embraces, touching each other's faces, grasping arms, shoulders, forearms and sometimes the entire torso, squeezing each other, pressing together, whispering in one another's ears while cheek to cheek … Sylar wouldn't have believed there was nothing else going on if he hadn't had every single one of Nathan's memories to be sure. All those casual and a-lot-more-than-casual touches were in his head, but the most he'd personally experienced from Peter on the positive end was some careful and considerate medical care and the occasional touch in passing.

It left Sylar with an ache inside as he missed something he rationally knew he'd never had. He felt so closed off from everything, especially Peter, someone that his mind constantly stumbled over thinking of as more than an enemy and near-stranger. He didn't want to be Nathan. He didn't want Nathan's relationship with Peter. For one thing, he wanted a lot more than that.

He couldn't remember Peter ever giving Nathan a backrub and that … that thought by itself made him so glad he was facedown. It hid any embarrassing physical reactions and the feel of both of Peter's hands fondling his back, manipulating him with strong, secure strokes, was certainly kindling such a reaction. He let his breathing deepen as Peter worked up to his shoulders, kneading and molding his flesh until Sylar couldn't maintain the tension anymore. He let it go and relaxed, sagging against the mattress. Peter worked downward, quiet and thorough.

_Oh, God, Peter. Why aren't you married and settled down with someone? Do you have any idea how excellent a catch you are? I'll bet there are people who __**never**__ do this for a partner. And why are you doing it for me? Because I said my back hurt. That's it. That's all. And because you're so fucking desperate to help people that you'll even help __**me**__ if you have to._ Sylar let out a deep sigh of contentment as Peter silently worked over his lumbar region, helping Sylar out for no apparent reason except that someone had a hurt that a few minutes of his effort might dispel.

He finished, and sat with his nearer (right) hand resting on Sylar's back, just above his beltline. Sylar wasn't about to turn over. He was rock hard. _Jesus Christ, if Peter gives me this sort of treatment and __**doesn't**__ expect a reaction, then he's way more naïve than I think he is_._ He's naïve, but he's not that __**that**__ naïve_. After a few moments of stillness, Sylar cocked his head and twisted his neck to look back at Peter, who seemed lost in thought, staring off into the distance. Peter's thumb moved slightly, brushing back and forth slowly against Sylar's shirt. It was an absent-minded intimacy, but an intimacy nonetheless and made Sylar wonder where, exactly, he ranked in Peter's head that he'd even unintentionally touch him like that. He stayed still, not wanting to break the spell.

"Is that better?" Peter finally asked, giving him a few 'I'm done' pats before withdrawing his hand.

_If I say no, will you do it all over again? _"Yes," Sylar said very quietly, thinking that he really needed to give a little more attention to how to get Peter to do what he wanted - like this. Or more than this. _What else is it that Peter likes?_ Gratitude came to mind. "Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome." Again, Peter wasn't moving away. It created a strained feel between them, at least for Sylar, as he tried to figure out what he needed to be doing without being able to see Peter's face, not that it would have been a lot of help. Peter touched him again, lightly now, over his left shoulder blade. Sylar exhaled heavily and didn't restrain the shiver that shook him. "You liked that," Peter said, without a hint of a question.

_Uh … how the hell am I supposed to answer that?_ "Most people like backrubs," Sylar said, giving a non-answer that didn't expose how desperate he was for the contact.

Peter kept moving his hand around, apparently straightening Sylar's shirt, which had been mauled and twisted during the massage. It was a fastidious bit of grooming that seemed really out of place. Sylar fought the urge to look back at the other man and instead lay still, even though he felt about as defenseless in the pose as he'd been initially pretending to be. Peter's motions changed to stroking him again - freaking _**petting**_ him! - and Peter cleared his throat roughly as though trying to summon up his courage for something.

_Whoa. Wait a second. I'm not the only one fucking around here trying to manipulate somebody. Holy fuck. _Instantly Sylar was tense all over again. _He's making a pass at me. He's fucking making a __**pass**__ at me! Jesus Christ, what do I do? Just lay here? Tell him he's sexy? No, no. That's always put him off in the past. What got him on the bed was me rolling over like this. He doesn't even have to look at me this way. It's super-nonconfrontational, like he's scared of me. _Which wasn't out of character, now that he thought of various other reactions Peter had had (and that Peter had outright told him - Peter didn't tend to be shy about letting people know how he felt … just like now).

Peter said, "Hey … just … um … I know you've made some offers … I'm just … um," he cleared his throat again as Sylar strained to hear every nuance and freely left Peter to stumble through whatever it was he had to say. "Maybe sometime, okay?"

A grin spread across Sylar's face even though Peter was retreating, leaving the bed entirely. Peter hesitated at the bedside as though waiting for an answer. Face beaming, Sylar turned and told him, "Oh yes!"

Looking frightened and put off by the expression, Peter hared off into a different part of the apartment, but he didn't leave. Dumbfounded at his luck and the turn of events, Sylar was glad of the privacy. He couldn't get the huge smile off his face, and he knew the trick to this was to act casual. He had to. And he would. But in the meanwhile, he was going to grin like a maniac.

8D

* * *

><p><strong>Seducation<strong>

Sylar was a frighteningly good student. At least, that was what Peter had decided was going on, as Sylar seemed to have enrolled in Seducing Peter Petrelli 101 and was acing the class. Currently, he and Sylar were sitting on the couch, each canted towards the other, and Sylar was letting Peter's tongue explore his lips in a gradual progression, having figured out that letting Peter take the lead was best for both of them.

Their first time of making out, Sylar had swiftly become too aggressive. Peter had turned away and shut down. Sylar, hypersensitive especially that first time, backed off immediately. The second time, Peter swore Sylar did it on purpose just to see what the reaction would be. Peter had jerked back, angry, and Sylar had ducked his head apologetically, reaching out to stroke along Peter's arm. When Peter jerked that away, too, Sylar trailed his fingers up and down Peter's thigh and hunched over even more.

It had worked. Peter had calmed down fast, rubbed Sylar's shoulder a bit, ignored him for a while, and then moved things along to a completely different subject. He hadn't missed the little smile Sylar had - though whether it was 'I got away with that', 'I learned something' or 'I just avoided getting punched in the nose' was unclear. Peter was pretty sure it was at least one of those.

Not that he cared much. Right now what he cared about was the exquisitely human taste of Sylar's mouth as Peter sucked Sylar's upper lip between his own and ran his tongue back and forth over it. Sylar positioned himself as well as possible to make it easy - that wasn't lost on Peter. (_Good student, paying so much attention to his teacher,_ Peter mused. _A-plus, definitely._) Sylar panted lightly as his wide, dark eyes took in Peter's face so close to his own. Peter watched him back, but he didn't make much in the way of eye contact. He was more focused on what he was doing, anyway.

Peter's tongue probed at the line demarcating lips and inside of mouth, stroking over the smooth but drier lips, wetting them thoroughly and tasting them. Sylar tasted good. It wasn't like any specific food or drink. He tasted clean, but he definitely had a flavor. Gradually, he crossed the line to the slicker membrane within, teasing briefly against the even teeth before coming back to suck on the fleshy lip again. He liked the way Sylar leaned into him and breathed harder at that. Peter delved back inside time after time as Sylar allowed Peter all the time in the world to sample him.

Even though Sylar wasn't aggressing on Peter, it was clear he was really enjoying this. His expression persisted in being one of stunned amazement, like he found it hard to believe this was even happening. His breath came fast; his heart beat quickly and his skin was slightly flushed. Peter adored it, absorbed it, took in that his partner was really thoroughly and deeply engaged, even if he wasn't acting much. One of Sylar's hands was at Peter's waist, but other than that, they hardly touched. Sylar looked like he was the luckiest man in the world and Peter felt so, so appreciated.

He finally finished with his taste test, moving on to a long, involved kiss. He tilted his head to mold his own lips against Sylar's, letting them slide together. Peter felt a quiver inside of himself, loving every moment of this. Sylar was getting it just right – not pushing, but letting Peter get comfortable with him (and more than comfortable). With other partners, Peter expected and wanted more interaction, but Sylar wasn't 'other partners'. They had too much history for Peter to be relaxed with him right away. He needed the chance to work up to whatever it was they were working up to. Hell, just being friendly had taken forever. Intimacy was progressing in stages. Kissing – kissing was good.

Peter loved kissing. As an activity, he was more interested in sitting around making out than discussing whatever, and with Sylar there were so many topics he didn't want to get into. Instead, he wanted what he was getting here: cooperation, affection, attention and appreciation. He liked how Sylar was letting him lead. Later, perhaps, Peter would want more assertiveness, but for now he was still a little too wary for that. He wanted what he was getting.

Peter felt more than heard a stifled moan in the back of Sylar's throat as he worked his mouth, finding new areas to tongue. Sylar's left hand bunched the fabric of Peter's shirt just above the jeans - once, twice and then a third time in suppressed desire. Sylar _wanted_ to be all over him, that was clear. Peter wanted to make Sylar submit entirely to being pleasured and push him right over the edge. He pulled back and waggled his eyebrows at the other man, who raised his slightly in question.

_Time for a new lesson_. Peter sat up and shifted, straightening and then twisting, bringing his left leg up and over so he straddled Sylar, sitting on his lap. Sylar's eyes widened comically, as though this was something he hadn't contemplated, like it was almost too far. He swallowed nervously. Peter stayed upright, butt on Sylar's knees, a respectable distance between their bodies. With a slight smile on his face, he waited for Sylar to get comfortable with the idea. Sylar's eyes returned to normal and his gaze dropped to Peter's chest, then lower to his legs. He reached out and stroked Peter's thighs, glancing back up. Sylar puckered a little and tilted his head, something he'd done before to say, "Come kiss me," without actually speaking.

Peter accepted the signal, leaning in to take what was offered. Three kisses into it, he brought his hands up the outside of Sylar's arms, over his shoulders, to the man's neck and then his cheeks, caressing and stroking. Sylar's breath came hard for a moment and he shivered, his mouth opening wider. The expression of arousal shot through Peter, electrifying him. He wanted more of that and he wanted it now. He slid in closer, bringing their bodies together. Sylar stiffened again, looking alarmed and so vulnerable. He was 'acting' less and less, Peter could tell. It was hard to keep up a charade when you were groin to groin with someone, as now. In a very obvious way, they were both rather excited about what was going on.

Peter smiled. "It's okay. It's okay. This is all I'll do." _Unless you show me you can handle more._

Sylar paused to give Peter an exasperated look and to roll his eyes at being patronized. Peter just grinned and moved his face in close, rubbing the tip of his nose against the side of Sylar's. That seemed to just knock the guy right out. The rolling eyes turned to fluttering lids and Sylar let his head loll back with a deliciously helpless sound. Peter kissed the point of his chin, then dipped his head lower to Sylar's throat. Immediately the other man's hands gripped hard on Peter's shoulders, on the verge of shoving him back. Peter kissed gently - very gently - again, and then again, slowly working his way back up towards the chin. He made a mental note about that area. Sylar relaxed slowly.

Peter returned to Sylar's mouth to provide the deep, thorough plunging that had gotten such a good response earlier. It didn't take long before Sylar started running his hands up and down Peter's back, responding strongly. They kissed the same way for what seemed like minutes, until Peter was light-headed with desire and the urge to thrust into **something** was getting overwhelming. Peter rocked his hips slightly against the other man, provoking a dazed look as Sylar's fingers began to curl into Peter's shirt. The side of Peter's mouth twitched upwards for a moment, pleased with the acceptance.

Peter's hands strayed from Sylar's face to run through his hair. At that, Sylar began truly struggling, like he was on the verge of losing it. He pulled fitfully at Peter's shirt and kissed back aggressively, devouring Peter's mouth. Peter let him, things having gone far enough that he was comfortable with it now. He let Sylar try to swallow him down as Peter kept prodding at him, trying to push him over that edge. _He is so freaking responsive!_

Peter pulled back eventually to reassert control. He nipped at Sylar's lips, feeling the man's breath hot against his face, tightening his hands into fists and pulling Sylar's head back so that Peter was in control of how much they kissed. Sylar said something completely inarticulate at that, clenching Peter's shirt. For a moment, it looked like that was all Sylar was going to do, but then he dropped his hands to Peter's ass, where they hovered for a second as though undecided. Peter tugged Sylar's head back and dropped his lips to Sylar's throat. The other man gripped Peter's ass immediately, pressing them together more tightly. Peter rocked harder, taking that as the signal it was - full steam ahead! He kissed and then nibbled up and down Sylar's throat, going gently at first even though his hold on Sylar's hair was firm, allowing no dissent. He ground his hips against him with increasing pressure and energy.

Sylar moaned and seemed torn in what he wanted to do - he struggled briefly as though he wanted to throw Peter off of him, all the while he was actually thrusting back to meet Peter. He made a series of tiny, choked sounds that were plaintive, then shuddered. He jerked spasmodically against Peter as he came, his breath hitching so beautifully. The knowledge that Peter had brought Sylar off just by dry-humping him was exactly what Peter wanted. He reached down with one hand to rub at himself furiously while the other, still fisted in Sylar's hair, brought the man's head back up so Peter could taste him one last time before his own climax.

Peter groaned, feeling the orgasm rush through him, building fast, lighting him up. He shoved his mouth tighter to Sylar's, feeling teeth pressing painfully against his lips. He squeezed himself through the front of his jeans, freezing up as he peaked. He panted, breathing hard against Sylar's cheek. Peter held himself in place, quietly winding down. Sylar pulled his head slightly to the side and Peter untangled his hand from the man's hair, giving him his freedom.

Sylar slowly moved his hands to Peter's head, cradling it and looking up at him like he was worthy of worship. Peter looked back, just inches away, letting himself fall into Sylar's dark, dilated eyes. The other man drew Peter in gently and began to tenderly pepper his face with small kisses and physical endearments. Peter felt himself go to putty inside. He slumped and sagged. Oh yes, Sylar was the best student ever.


	8. Stay

**Title:** Stay  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 1,200  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Peter realizes he is unwilling to leave Sylar behind in the world of the Wall.

* * *

><p>Peter looked out at the desolate landscape, which was shrouded from his view by darkness, rain and the grime thinly coating the cracked window. He shoved his hands further into his pockets, ignoring the damp and cold that seeped into his bones and covered his shoulders like an icy mantel. What he couldn't ignore were the faint shifting noises from the corner where Sylar sat, shivering as quietly and stoically as he could. The taller, somewhat thinner man seemed more susceptible to the chill and wet, but maybe that was just another feature of this crazy mental prison. Sylar didn't believe this was fake; Peter did and so perhaps it was easier for him to shrug off effects that Sylar found unshakable.<p>

They'd walked for miles, driven on by Peter's insistence that he find a way out of here, a physical route that might be just over the horizon. And so they'd walked. Peter was determined; Sylar had followed. At first, Peter had thought Sylar went with him just to gloat when Peter turned out to be wrong. But as the day wore on, other possibilities began to filter into his thoughts. Maybe Sylar wanted to get out, too. Maybe he believed Peter and didn't want to risk being left behind in eternal solitary confinement. Maybe he just wanted to be with Peter, to stand by him, to go where he went. Faithful. And strangely, loyal. As evening drew on, those last reasons seemed truest, odd as it seemed.

Peter sighed as he strained his eyes against the night, dimly making out the jagged edges of abandoned buildings. They were vacant by necessity - nothing else lived in the nightmare world of Matt's creation - but the further Peter had walked, the less defined the structures had been. They showed increasing signs of decay and decrepitude, like there might indeed be an eventual end to the signs of civilization. The whole buildings, the furnished apartments, the diners and grocery stores well-stocked for their needs; the books, the baseballs, the hot showers and functioning electricity that Peter had taken for granted - all these were well behind him. Before him lay a bleak nothingness - a flat, empty landscape of hardship and privation.

And here was Sylar by his side, unflagging in his company. It was almost like … devotion. As the day had ended and light had left the land, Sylar had not faltered. He had suggested they seek shelter, but when Peter, ever foolhardy, had disregarded his warnings and pressed on, Sylar had fallen into step without quibble. Peter was beginning to think Sylar would follow him anywhere, even unto the end of the world.

It was an unasked for honor. Peter didn't know what to do with it now that he had it, but he felt guilty for not protecting someone who was putting such faith in him. He glanced back, side-eyeing the other man. Sylar sat on the floor, on a ratty blanket reminiscent of the ones movers used to wrap and protect furniture. There were scraps of cardboard littering the floor and although they were both grateful to have found a building intact enough to stave off the rain and the cutting, fitful wind, there were no other comforts to be found here. Sylar's legs were drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around them. His chin was tucked down atop his knees and his frame shuddered continually from the cold.

It was a little-known fact that people could get hypothermia at temperatures well above freezing. Neither of them had dressed for a long trek, nor brought supplies. They had only each other.

Peter frowned. The chance of getting out was slim. Sylar was already suffering from the journey. That was certain. Dying wasn't the 'way out' Peter wanted to explore, especially if it was Peter's own actions that sent Sylar to that undiscovered country ahead of him. He relaxed as a decision settled over him. In the morning, they would return to where Sylar was comfortable, where his things were, where his home was. And Peter would go with him.

That determined, he turned from the window and walked over to his companion, who looked up at him with dull, tired eyes. Peter gathered up some of the cardboard, making a stack of it at the edge of the blanket with the cleanest scrap on top. Sylar watched him silently. They'd already discussed that they had nothing to make a fire with, but that wasn't Peter's goal.

"Lie down. Use this as a pillow," Peter directed. Sylar looked at him blankly, still shivering jerkily, and obeyed. It was hardly the strangest thing Peter had asked him to do. No, probably the strangest was what was going to happen next. Peter knelt beside and behind Sylar, guiding him to turn onto his side.

"Wh-wh-what are you d-doing?" Sylar stammered out, letting Peter handle him anyway.

"I'm going to …" He wasn't willing to say what he was going to do. He felt embarrassed about it, but he had no other way to provide the warmth that Sylar obviously, desperately needed. They had no dry clothes (again, Peter's fault for not seeking shelter as soon as the sky had clouded and rain seemed immanent) and no way to get them. There was nothing else to do but what Peter planned. Instead of explaining, he just nudged Sylar into the position he wanted and laid down next to him, spooning up close as Sylar tensed all over, this time not from the cold. "Here," Peter said softly, wrapping himself against the other man's body, offering his body heat. "Maybe we can sleep like this. In the morning we'll go back home."

Throwing everything to the wind - caution, decorum and probably sense - Peter wormed his arm around Sylar's waist, holding him close with an intimacy they had never shared before, but Sylar had hinted a few times was desired. Peter had things he could offer besides just his body heat. Friendliness and affection were among them, along with actually caring about Sylar, and more importantly: showing it. Peter turned his head to the side and pressed his cheek against Sylar's back, between his shoulder blades. Moved by some empathetic instinct he hadn't even known he still had, Peter added, "I won't try to leave you again."

He meant it. They both felt it. Sylar's shudders faded. He gripped Peter's hand with icy fingers, holding fast to him and saying nothing. Peter wriggled a tiny bit closer, making sure there was no space whatsoever between them. Slowly, silently, the warmth grew and with the retreat of the chill came a peaceful sleep.


	9. Wall Fantasy

Sylar slammed Peter back against the brick wall, giving up on words, however biting, to express his frustration with the recalcitrant, stubborn Petrelli. Peter's head bounced and his face momentarily took on a dazed look. Seeing a rare opportunity to take advantage, Sylar smashed his lips to Peter's in a rough mockery of a kiss. It wasn't the first time he'd done it – and that first time Peter had fought him off, slapped him and belittled him. _So, fine, I'll do it again_. Peter came back to awareness a moment later, quickly bringing his hands to Sylar's shoulders. The taller man braced himself, expecting to be thrown back.

But … there was hesitation on Peter's part, and the beginning of confusion on Sylar's. A moment later Peter's hands fisted into the cloth of Sylar's shirt and he twisted his head with a grunt - but it wasn't to escape. Peter was just getting a better angle. His lips moved against Sylar's, his mouth opening.

Now Sylar was the one frozen in indecision as the tables were turned. _Holy fuck, he's responding!_ He pulled back several inches, staring down at Peter, eyes wide. _Surely he was just doing that to fuck with me. … Right?_

Peter looked up at him inscrutably as several breathless seconds ticked by for Sylar. Peter took a deep breath and let it out, then tugged lightly on Sylar's shirt, pulling him back in.

Too stunned to know what else to do, Sylar complied. For several moments, he stood there awkwardly, only minimally participating, while Peter kissed at him with patience and persistence. _He isn't rejecting me. He's not making fun of me. What the hell is he playing at? Why is he doing this? _Questions came fast and furious in Sylar's head until finally he pulled away once more, shaking off Peter's hands from his shirt and staring at him in bafflement.

Peter regarded him briefly, then grimaced and rolled his shoulders, working out some cramp or knot from the fight. He acted like he hadn't been doing anything weird at all, like kissing on Sylar was a normal, day-to-day activity not worth reacting to.

Sylar had to ask. It seemed like a pretty stupid question, but Peter would give _some_ response and he'd work from there. "What are you _doing_, Peter?"

Peter looked up at him, eyes narrowing slightly before he glanced to the side and said, "I liked how that felt." His eyes were on Sylar's right shoulder. A moment later he reached for that shoulder and Sylar, mouth gaping slightly, let Peter guide him back in.

_Holy shit. I've wanted it … but now that I've got it I don't know what the hell to do with it_. Sylar stood stock still. Peter shut his eyes and kissed him on the jaw, Peter's lips and then his teeth working along the edge of Sylar's face, nibbling and nipping. _His eyes are shut. Why the fuck is he keeping his eyes shut? Is he pretending he's with some woman?_ Peter dragged his teeth across a healthy growth of bristle, biting him lightly on the chin and tugging the skin between his teeth. _Oh fuck yes!_ Sylar shivered, putting his hands around Peter's shoulders more out of instinct than intention. When he next had coherent thought, all he could really manage was, _There's no way he thinks he's with a woman._

Peter ran his hand behind Sylar's head, turning it, drawing Sylar's face down, and moving his own up carefully, eyes still closed. Peter kissed him tenderly at first, then more passionately, his fingers beginning to twine into Sylar's hair. His breathing sped up and Sylar's did as well, feeling the beginnings of interest in lower regions as well. Peter moaned into Sylar's mouth, lids still shut.

_He's pretending I'm someone else, that he's not with me. Well, Petrelli, I've got some bad news for you, I'm the only other person here and you do __**not**__ get to forget that_. With a snarl, Sylar worked his own hand into Peter's hair. It was as silky and lovely to feel as he'd always thought it would be. He made a fist and jerked Peter's head back. Peter gasped and bared his teeth, eyes flying open. Lip curled, Sylar told him, "I know what you're doing, Peter."

Peter yanked his head to the side to free it and Sylar let him rather than hang on and risk damaging that flamboyant mop. He liked it where it was, on Peter's head. What Peter had to say was not what he expected, but this whole encounter was not going to plan - not that Sylar had had much of a plan. "Then let me do it," Peter growled, glaring at him.

Sylar tilted his head a tiny bit, the snarl fading from his face as he seriously considered that. _Peter was … touching me. Does it really matter who he's thinking of? Why do I give a fuck about whatever twisted fantasy is going through his stupid brain? He's touching __**me**__!_

After the pause for Sylar's thought and lack of response, Peter leaned back against the wall behind him and lifted his chin. He let his hands fall from Sylar's shoulders to his own sides and said, "Or would you rather I didn't?"

"No, this is good," Sylar blurted out so fast it took a moment for his thoughts to catch up with his words. _Oh, yeah, great. Why don't you get down on your knees and beg while you're at it? _But he shoved those thoughts away as Peter closed his eyes again and drew near, letting his hands rest on Sylar's stomach and then trail upwards. _Oh, God, that feels good. No begging's being required. Just let him touch me. He wants to pretend; he wants to fantasize; he wants to check out mentally and just … fuck around with my body. Because I'm the only other person here and he hasn't forgotten that. I'm it. No matter what he wants, I'm the only one he can have it with and he knows that._

Peter's hands ghosted over Sylar's chest and found his chin, gracing both cheeks with a gentle touch as the empath leaned in, lips slightly parted. Sylar obliged him by bending for the kiss, letting lips move against lips, feeling Peter's fingers cross over his ears, toying with them briefly before one hand cupped the back of his head and the other went far, far further south to find the small of Sylar's back. Peter pressed lightly there as he stepped forward until they were touching.

Sylar pulled in a faster breath, but Peter's eyes remained hooded. There was something very freeing about being unobserved. Human emotions were strongly affected by knowing one was being watched. There was an element to this like Sylar was alone, yet here was Peter in his arms and under his hands, touching and being touched, giving him sensations, tastes and sounds. And there was nothing to keep Sylar from feasting his eyes wherever he liked. He didn't even need to worry that Peter might take note of where his eyes lingered.

His gaze feasted on Peter's face, so close, so intent, so full of life and passion. Sylar drank it in, drawing in the faint scent of Peter's aftershave and shampoo, savoring the taste of his lips. Sylar tried to stifle the sound of pleasure that lurked in his throat, at the pleasure of having another human being touching him … with care. Or at least it seemed that way._ I know he's not thinking of me, but this is so good. I need to make sure he's happy so he might want to do this again. I'm all he has. Make it worth his while and he'll come back._

Peter responded to the noise Sylar made, kissing him harder and teasing at his lips with the tip of his tongue.

_You liked that? That noise?_ Sylar made a small, tentative whimper._ I sound weak. Fuck._ He didn't have much time to rebuke himself over it though, as Peter groaned in his mouth in response and pulled them together more firmly. _Oh! You __**do**__ like that! Fuck what it sounds like, if it makes him happy, do it!_ Less bashful, Sylar full-out whined and Peter acted like he wanted to climb inside of him, starting with his mouth. His tongue probed deeply, one hand fisting in Sylar's hair while the other pressed rhythmically at the small of Sylar's back, encouraging him to grind against him.

Sylar took the hint, shoving his hips forward. Peter broke from his mouth and embraced him, his face buried against Sylar's neck. He was breathing heavily on him, hot breath and needy, incessant noises as Peter ground back against him, bracing himself for more friction.

_Oh boy, you're really something, Peter! Oh God, I like this. I know he's just using me, but holy fuck this is good. And way nicer than all the other times I've been used. He doesn't seem to mind that I like it. Even seems to want that. Weirdo._ Sylar kissed Peter's forehead, hands on Peter's hips for leverage. His hands didn't stray further because he still wasn't sure what was allowed and what would fit in with whatever fantasy was running behind Peter's eyes.

Peter kissed him sloppily on the neck, then bit him and sucked. Sylar groaned, backing Peter the few inches to the wall and fucking against him harder. Peter's hand snaked around between them and started hastily unfastening Sylar's pants.

_Whoa! Shit! What the hell is he …? I'm not sure I want to … Don't talk. Don't talk. Don't complain. He has to want to do this again. Make sure he wants to do this again. Don't stop him. Oh my God, he's touching me!_ Peter fumbled with the elastic band of Sylar's underwear, having trouble getting it to stay down. Sylar hooked his thumb into it and shoved it down firmly, presenting himself with no small amount of fear.

"Oh yeah," Peter murmured, not looking down, not looking at anything, and again that was a big help for Sylar. There could be no judgment or comparison if he didn't look.

_Is he going to blow me?_ Sylar thought incredulously. But no, now Peter was pawing at his own pants with the same energy as before, exposing himself to Sylar's startled eyes. He didn't get to see much though before Peter brought them back together, unbelievably rubbing directly against him, caressing up and down his own shaft, then Sylar's, then his own again. _This is really, really weird … sex? Foreplay? Whatever the fuck, it's weird. You are such a pervert, Peter. Leave it to you to be into forms of sex I've never even heard of!_

"Come on," Peter whispered, voice hoarse with passion. "Move with me like you were doing before."

Sylar started grinding against him. He swallowed, mouth dry. His voice was so rough he could hardly talk, but he got out, "Like this?" _Gotta give him what he wants. Make him happy. Got to. Such a burden. Ha._

"Yeah, yeah," Peter breathed, running his fingers up and down both of them at the same time, in sync with Sylar's faux thrusts.

Peter reached down with his free hand and took one of Sylar's, bringing it to where their members slid against one another. Sylar sucked in air and tensed. _I get to touch you?_

"Help me out here," Peter panted.

_Okay … um … yeah._ Sylar helped, just about agape at what he was being allowed to do and touch. For the first time in his life, he took another man's penis into his hand, marveling at how it felt - hot and velvety, hard and spongy. His motions were slow and tentative, like Peter was too delicate to be handled any other way. Peter began kissing his neck again between croons and mewls. Peter sucked on him hard and Sylar was sure he was getting marked up. He felt a swelling pride and pleasure inside that he'd have something to show for this._ He won't be able to pretend this didn't happen. It'll be right on my skin. He can't keep his damn eyes shut forever!_

Peter's hand slipped to take Sylar's shaft alone in his grip, pumping faster. His other looped around Sylar's neck, holding the nape. Peter leaned back against the wall, eyes closed in apparent bliss as he worked him. _Why is he doing __**me?**__ He's jerking __**me**__ off, not himself. Am I doing wrong? Am I doing something wrong? Should I be kissing him?_ Sylar bent and Peter twitched a little when their lips met, then made a lovely, needy sound deep in his throat and opened his mouth. Sylar slid his tongue inside, tasting and probing. _I've been manipulated by a lot of Petrellis, but it's never been this good … or literal._

He could feel the rush of orgasm rising through his body. _Do I stop? Should I stop him? I shouldn't … I should just let him do it. He wants to do it. He's using me … oh God, Peter, please use me!_ His eyes rolled back in his head and he curled over Peter, pressing cheek to cheek and probably drooling on him with the intensity of the sensation. A flash of heat and light passed through him as he came, leaving him whimpering helplessly, vaguely aware that he was in Peter's power completely, wondering if that was Peter's point in all of this.

Peter, though, was not done. In fact, he seemed to go just about mad with passion. He brought Sylar's face back to where he could kiss him, and did. The empath growled in the back of his throat with a deep satisfaction. Sylar sagged against him compliantly, feeling as Peter's hand, wet and sticky with Sylar's come, switched to his own shaft. He displaced Sylar's hand where it had been resting, mostly forgotten by its owner, on Peter's cock. _I … I should have been stroking him. I … how the hell did I forget that? Well, he __**was **__distracting me. His own stupid fault. I can't be blamed. I was letting him do what he wanted. If he'd wanted action for himself, then he shouldn't have been jerking me off._

Peter pumped at himself, rubbing his whole body against him and kissing Sylar deeply. The empath growled and hummed and sometimes even gasped in lewd response to his own touch. _He … he's getting off on me. Like I'm turning him on. Was that it? He's turned on by getting me off? Like it's a power thing? Um … okay, you know, Peter, whatever it takes, I'm here to help, _he thought almost gleefully at this discovery.

Peter's mouth strayed to Sylar's cheek and then his jaw, getting progressively clumsier as his breathing began to strain and his body tensed. Peter arched against him and came, hot liquid spattering onto the exposed part of Sylar's stomach. Sylar glanced down at the whitish streamer that was now dangling from Peter's dick. More of it was a little under Sylar's navel, rapidly sliding into his pubic hair. _Peter Petrelli just jizzed on me. I don't know whether to feel like his whore or proud. I'm his blow-up sex doll … but at least I'm his something, right?_

Sylar looked back up and nearly jumped out of his skin, because Peter was looking right at him, eyes fully open. Sylar swallowed and inhaled and pulled back, feeling like he'd been caught doing something nasty and forbidden. Something about Peter's face shifted and Sylar stopped. _Regret? Embarrassment? Disappointment maybe?_ Peter darted forward and gave him a quick peck on the lips, drawing back slowly with a hopeful expression.

_Okay … maybe not disappointment._ Sylar felt himself smiling without even thinking about it. A moment later, Peter's face echoed his._ Yeah, kind of embarrassing, I guess, Petrelli. You just sexed me up with your fucking eyes closed the whole time, obviously pretending it wasn't me. I can see how that would be shameful for you to have to wake up and here I am._

He thought about that quick peck. It was somehow deeply touching, despite the smallness of the gesture. _The kiss was nice though. You didn't have to do that. You could just shove me away and go get cleaned up. I wouldn't stop you._

"You liked that?" Sylar asked hesitantly._ If it's just him, with his wants, his needs, then it's not me. I'm just letting him use me. I'm just making things here more tolerable for him. I'm just keeping his interest. … Please be interested, Peter?_

"Oh yeah," Peter affirmed with a deep exhalation. "Thank you."

"Any time," Sylar offered, daring to let himself feel just a little bit smug.

* * *

><p>Peter was slammed back against the brick wall that he'd been trying to maneuver away from. Obviously, Sylar wasn't so interested in giving him space. <em>If that's the way it is, you're just gonna have to get inside his reach and-<em> His head hitting the wall jumbled his thoughts and for a moment he went basically off-line, unable to do anything more complicated than keep his feet (and that was aided enormously by the wall itself). He came conscious to find Sylar … kissing him. It was so incongruous that for a moment Peter couldn't even figure out where he was.

_What the hell? Weren't we just fighting? My brains aren't __**that**__ scrambled! _He brought his hands up to Sylar's shoulders to push the man off, but his next thoughts gave him pause. _If I push him away, we're gonna keep fighting and that will hurt … more. He pulled this kissing crap before. He seems to really want it. But what is it he wants – the kissing, or is he just trying to skeeve me out? Two can play at that game._

Peter's hands tightened in the fabric, holding Sylar to him and he moved his lips in unison. As he'd expected, Sylar freaked. Peter was disappointed by that. _That kind of felt nice. Hell of a lot nicer than getting punched. I can at least make sure he doesn't kiss me again in the middle of a fight._ He tugged Sylar back to him, fully expecting the other man to jerk away and the fight to be on.

Sylar let himself be pulled back, without any resistance at all. _Oh, wow. _Peter's lips pressed to Sylar's soft and warm ones, lovely and plush just like they looked, pliant and delicious. Sylar moved just a little to make it easier._ He __**does**__ want this._ Of course Sylar wasn't reciprocating _very much_, but the situation was awkward and Peter didn't let the limited response deter him. _So much nicer than fighting._ He just kept kissing, waiting for Sylar to join in as Peter figured he soon would._ Either that or he'll freak out again._

It was the latter, but as freak-outs went it was mild. Sylar pulled back carefully and shook Peter off firmly but gently. The other man stared down at him with uncertainty. And what looked a lot like hope. Peter looked over Sylar's face, watching the subtle play of emotions, reading them more accurately than Sylar himself probably perceived them.

Peter rolled his shoulders, trying to pop his stiff neck, but nothing happened. He was very conscious that they were only a couple inches apart and Sylar hadn't moved away. The other man was neither looming nor retreating. They were almost touching even now. The proximity told Peter a lot about Sylar's desires, a closeted homo-(or bi-)sexuality that cloaked itself with violence and aggression rather than admit to what might be seen as a weakness.

"What are you _doing_, Peter?" Sylar's voice sounded raw, maybe a little afraid and a lot bewildered.

_You mean, why am I giving you what you were trying to take? Is it that hard a concept to imagine you might be highly kissable?_ He looked up at Sylar with narrowed eyes._ It's either this or fight with you and I'm sort of tired of being the punching bag for your repressed urges. Especially tired of it when your lips felt that nice._ "I liked how that felt," Peter replied, reaching slowly but casually for Sylar's shoulder and pulling him back in.

Peter shut his eyes. He didn't want to be kissing _Sylar_. The man he was with? Of course. But not Sylar. Sylar had killed Nathan, he'd assaulted Claire, he'd killed Peter a few times, he'd murdered scores of people. The man Peter wanted to touch was someone else - he was the person who so desperately wanted to break out from behind Sylar's shell of cicatrized defenses. He was the person standing so close, letting Peter's mouth find his jaw and lip along it, biting him lightly, teasing his way to the man's chin. He bit and tugged. This other man, the one who disguised himself as Sylar, shivered and Peter's breath caught.

_Oh yeah,_ Peter thought. _I like the way you taste. I like the way you feel. You're strong and you're mine … Gabriel._ He knew the name from their brief, faux-brotherhood. Peter wanted anything to call him other than the moniker of the killer. He had no idea if the name 'Gabriel' would be welcomed, but he didn't intend to speak it out loud. Peter ran his hand behind Gabriel's head, angling his head for a kiss. It was soft and careful at first. Peter could feel Gabriel's chest rising and falling as if he'd been running. He could feel Gabriel's breath hot on his face. Peter let his hand make a loose fist in the man's hair as he kissed harder, channeling his aggression into this purer form of lust, rather than the bloodlust and violence they'd been indulging earlier.

Sylar, Gabriel, whoever, was not done asserting his dominance though and grabbed Peter's hair to yank him back. It hurt with a flash of pain to his scalp, but that didn't deter Peter from jerking his head to the side as his eyes snapped open. _Let go of me or this is over! _Sylar let him go, but snarled, "I know what you're doing, Peter."

"Then let me do it," Peter growled, wanting to do something in retaliation. Sylar's hand dropped slowly to his side and Peter's violent urge faded. _He's still right here next to me. He doesn't want to fight or he'd back off and get some room to swing. Calm down. _Sylar's expression showed vulnerability, not anger, with a mix of hope, fear and uncertainty playing over his features. Peter leaned back against the wall, assuming an arrogant, disinterested pose. _I'm not going to let you pretend I'm forcing myself on you, you asshole._ "Or would you rather I didn't?"

"No, this is good!" Sylar just about yelped the words and it was all Peter could do to keep from smirking.

_Alright. As long as we're all clear on who wants who here._ Peter shut his eyes again and leaned in, letting his hands start with Gabriel's stomach - a region he looked forward to exploring in detail some other time - and drift upward over his chest and up his neck to briefly cup his bristle-covered chin before sliding over his cheeks. Peter leaned in, lips parted. He knew Gabriel was watching him. He knew he, himself, was pretty damn defenseless with his eyes shut. If the other man couldn't allow such a weakness without taking advantage of it, Peter wanted to know.

But instead Gabriel bent for the kiss, engaging and letting their lips join in a slow, osculatory dance. Peter's hands moved on to momentarily trace the delicate rim of his partner's ears. Gabriel shifted slightly against him, a half inch closer_. I love how he smells, how he feels, how that tingles. Oh!_ Peter ran one hand into Gabriel's hair again, cradling his skull and using it to guide their kisses. The other hand dropped to the small of the man's back, again trying to offer guidance, not so subtly taking the lead, but Gabriel didn't seem to mind. He was breathing faster and harder, something Peter was doing as well.

Peter took a small step forward, all that was needed to put them in full contact. A thrumming sensation of desire ran all through him, augmented in no small part by the near-gasp Gabriel made. Peter's arousal was drawn off his partner's and every sign Gabriel gave that he was into it was fuel to the fire. Peter moved his head repeatedly in little jogs, rubbing his nose against the other man's as they kissed.

Gabriel made a faint, choked-off noise, too inhibited to do more than that. _Oh, no_, Peter thought._ Please be noisy. Please._ Peter pressed to him, making a quick lick at Gabriel's lips, begging entry, begging for more sound and more indication that this was working for Gabriel. The other man opened his mouth and made a pitiful, pleading noise that sounded like exactly the sound Peter wanted to be making himself. Peter groaned in want and need, pulling down on Gabriel's head as he pushed up against him, kissing hard. Gabriel full-out whined and Peter redoubled his efforts even further, tonguing the roof of the other man's mouth and beginning to grind against him. _Oh yeah, come on, baby. Come on!_

Their passion was building fast. Peter could feel the stiffness of Gabriel's cock through their jeans, straining against his own. He broke off kissing to better respond to Gabriel's somewhat irregular thrusts. _Oh my God, I don't think he's ever done this before. Whoa._ Peter wrapped his arms around him, his face buried against Gabriel's masculine neck. He panted and used every breath to let Gabriel know, with his vocalizations, that this was totally doing it for him, irregular and clumsy or not. _Come on, baby. It's not that tough. Get into the pattern, okay? _

They finally got in sync so they were rubbing continually rather than bumping. _Yeah, just like that. Oh, yeah. Good, good, good._ Peter tried to reward him by kissing the other man on the neck, but it was sloppy_. Oh fuck, he tastes good!_ He switched to biting and sucking. Gabriel groaned, his hands at Peter's hips tightening, fingers digging in and Peter _loved_ that. He groaned again, arching against Gabriel. A moment later, Peter was backed against the wall. _Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah, baby. Put me where you want me. Take a little control._

Gabriel's thrusts were becoming more purposeful and harder - painful actually, now that Peter had unyielding brick behind him. _Don't discourage him. Can't tell him to back off. Next step then …_ Peter reached between them and opened Gabriel's pants. He wasn't unaware of how the other man tensed and gasped. Had he been looking, he'd have seen Gabriel bite his lip. But he felt it when Gabriel helped him with getting his underwear to stay the fuck down and out of the way.

"Oh yeah," Peter whispered, a slow smile lighting up his face. _Thank you, thank you, thank you for cooperating._ He switched to liberating himself from his own clothes. Working by touch, he brought their shafts together slowly, rubbing one hand up and down his own male organ and then Gabriel's, up and down slowly, relishing the touch. He listened as Gabriel relearned how to breathe. _Oh yeah, he's never done this before. Easy, buddy. It's not that tough. This is the good stuff. I'll teach you things that will make you never want to fight again!_

"Come on," Peter invited, voice deep and rough with desire. "Move with me like you were doing before." His free hand went to Gabriel's back, urging him on with a steady contact.

Tentatively, Gabriel began grinding against him, letting Peter's hand draw them together so their bare shafts slid over one another. "Like this?" Gabriel croaked, obviously so wound up he could hardly speak.

"Yeah, yeah," Peter reassured, stroking them both with his fingertips. He was kind of surprised Gabriel hadn't popped off already. His other hand had made a fist in Gabriel's shirt over his back. After they seemed to have the pattern down, he reached over and took Gabriel's hand from his hip and brought it to them. The other man tensed up so much he quivered.

_Come on, come on. It's okay. It's okay._ "Help me out here," Peter panted, feeling a sudden spike of his own vulnerability as foreign fingers, long and slender, curled around his penis. _Oh, shit, he's got a hold of me! For fuck's sake, Peter. Calm the fuck down. He's not going to hurt you. I hope the hell not, at least._

As if Gabriel knew his thoughts, he kept his motions cautious and gradual, feeling his way into it rather than just grabbing and going to town. Now it was Peter relearning how to breathe. He started kissing Gabriel's neck again, giving more vocal encouragement. He sucked on him hard enough to give him a hickey. _Mine! I can't wait to see that on him._ Gabriel's chin was cocked to the side and his neck stretched for the treatment, as eloquent a statement of desire as any.

Peter wrapped his hand around Gabriel's shaft, stroking up and down faster than his previous touches. He adored how Gabriel shuddered against him with each motion. Peter hung off his neck, leaning against the wall and pulling Gabriel over him a little as Peter jerked him off. Gabriel's hand was still on Peter's cock, but the grip was loose like the other man had entirely forgotten what he was holding. _That's funny, _Peter thought. _Kind of flattering. Helps me concentrate on him, that's for sure._

He loved the feeling of Gabriel's legs shifting against his own in time with the motions of his hand. He liked the near-throbbing hardness in his hand, dribbles of pre-come spilling over to slick the tip. Peter jumped when Gabriel's lips touched his. He was so appreciative of the initiative though. Peter made an immediate noise of approval, opening his mouth wide and letting Gabriel slide his tongue within. Peter felt his own dick twitch strongly and he shuddered as Gabriel's tongue explored him. The other man's hips were jerking in time with Peter's hand, his whole body moving at Peter's orchestrating touch.

_This is awesome. This is awesome. You are __**so**__ mine! This is great. Awesome. Yeah, come for me, baby!_ Peter shifted his hand to Gabriel's tip as the man gave up kissing him and just pressed to him cheek to cheek, mouth slack and wet. Gabriel curled and quivered, whimpering helplessly as he came with the single most erotic sound Peter had ever heard in his life.

Peter was burning with need and that sound … it galvanized him. It made him want to climb all over Gabriel and hump him like a crazed animal. As soon as he reasonably could, he pulled Gabriel's face back to his, growling as he kissed him, reveling in the feel of Gabriel's complete and total submission to him. Peter felt like he was flying. Literally the whole world had faded except the feeling of Gabriel's skin on his, their joined, heaving breaths and the sounds they were making. Peter took his own dick in his hand and started pumping hard and fast, smearing Gabriel's ejaculate over himself.

Peter growled and moaned against his lover, completely lost in the moment. He felt like he was glowing, lighting up from within as his peak approached. He kissed across Gabriel's cheek and jaw, struggling to breathe as the orgasm took his breath away with a final rush. His eyelids fluttered as the crash broke him to pieces and put him back together seconds later, leaving him panting and spent, head spinning.

_I don't think I've ever come so hard. Oh God. All those little motions he was making … perfect, just perfect__**. FUCK ME**__. Oh … FUCK._ He leaned his head wearily against the brick, panting from his still-open mouth, staring blankly at Gabriel, Sylar?, as the other man was looking down at the mess they'd made of one another. Peter let his hand slip off himself and dangle to the side.

The other man looked up and jumped badly, apparently shocked that Peter's eyes were open. The man's face showed a flash of shame and a cringe, like he expected to be hit. Peter blinked, gathering up his sex-scattered wits. _No fucking wonder he leads with violence. He thinks I might hurt him __**now**__, after that? No, baby. No way._

Sylar stopped, studying Peter's face. Peter moved forward quickly and gave him a peck on the lips. _It's good. It's all good._ He drew back slowly. _Can you let it be good, be someone other than Sylar, at least for a little while?_

Sylar gave him a small, very genuine smile that was completely unlike the Sylar whom Peter hated and feared. It was like someone else entirely. Peter smiled back warmly. "You liked that?" Sylar asked hesitantly.

"Oh yeah," Peter affirmed immediately, letting out the breath he'd been holding. "Thank you."

Sylar subtly, but noticeably, straightened a little, puffing out his chest just a bit in pride. "Any time," he said.


	10. Just Talking

**A/N: Written for means2bhuman's prompt of wanting to see Sylar and Peter, in the Wall, discussing a pregnancy scare.**

"So … you ever had a Claire situation? You know, missing a month?"

Peter gave Sylar a blank look, having no idea what Sylar meant. _A … 'Claire' situation? Missing a month? Like when I lost all my memories? _"What?"

Sylar leaned against the piano, settling in as Peter went about tuning the instrument. It was an endeavor Sylar approved of, even if he wasn't helping. Peter hadn't asked; Sylar hadn't offered. He was secretly pleased Peter had been unable to find tuning forks, which was probably part of why Peter was unsatisfied with the quality of sound from it. "Have you ever had a near-miss? Thought the rabbit might die?"

_Oh!_ Peter finally got it. He breathed out a light snort and started plinking along, listening for a few notes before answering, "No."

"Hm," Sylar replied, moving out of the way as Peter opened the top for access to the mechanisms. He kept watching Peter expectantly, believing that would draw more of a response out of the man.

It did. Peter glanced over at him a few times, then reached in to tighten a peg. He said, "There were a couple times though that I didn't use protection and found out later she wasn't on the pill or anything." He shrugged. "Nothing ever happened, though."

_Found out later? A 'couple' times?_ That Peter could be so casual about his bountiful love life made Sylar's envy flare up. One brow crept upward as he snarked, "You make a habit out of sleeping with women who lie to you?"

Peter gave him another blank look. "They didn't lie." There was a small amount of heat in that, but mostly Peter was confused as to why Sylar would think that.

Sylar huffed and elaborated, "They didn't tell you they weren't on the pill?"

Peter's eyes shifted back and forth uneasily as he telegraphed his guilt. He blamed himself for taking stupid risks - that was all. That and he understood the implied immorality, even if his personal beliefs were different. "I didn't ask."

Now both of Sylar's brows climbed. "How does that conversation _not_ happen?"

Peter chuckled and checked a few more notes on the piano, thinking about one particular encounter in the back of a bar. Her name had been Chelsea. That was about all Peter knew of her, aside from general appearance and her loudly proclaimed decision to take revenge on her boyfriend for dumping her by screwing the best looking guy in the bar. Peter was flattered to be nominated. The conversation hadn't gone much past that. "Well, you know, sometimes it just doesn't happen." He smiled a little in memory.

Sylar frowned at him disapprovingly, even though it occurred to him that he'd never asked anything similar of Elle. Or Janice. Or Lydia. Or Maya, not that _that_ ever went anywhere. But Sylar knew Nathan had tried to hammer into Peter the need for using condoms - Nathan's own experience with an unexpected child being the impetus for that. And Sylar also thought that mature, reasonable, experienced relationships - like the ones he imagined medically-trained, sexually confident Peter having had - always included the dreaded, if stereotypical, 'conversation'.

Just in case he needed that misconception corrected, Peter said, "I didn't always know them all that well."

"But you knew them well enough to fuck them." Sylar felt angry about that - jealous, really, though he wouldn't admit to that emotion any more than the envy. The idea of Peter ignoring his brother's good advice was part of it, but mostly it was that Peter might have had a lot of quick, meaningless-but-thoroughly-enjoyable hookups in his life while Gabriel had had nothing.

Peter gave him a brief glower before pointedly ignoring him. Sylar's rough language, his angry tone and the implication of moral judgment all bothered Peter.

Sylar allowed the glare, mentally giving himself a point for having provoked his companion without suffering any other retaliation for it. "So what would you have done if one of these bimbos had turned up pregnant?"

"What?" he asked in surprise.

"I said-"

Peter knew exactly what had been said, but he wasn't about to let that sort of disrespect stand towards the people who'd been kind enough to share themselves with him. He jerked towards Sylar, snarling, "They weren't 'bimbos'!"

Sylar's more usual reaction would have been to hold perfectly still and coolly stare Peter down. In a fraction of a second, though, he changed his mind. He let his face show surprise at the vehement reaction, and let his gaze travel down to Peter's white-knuckle grip on the screwdriver that he hadn't had in his hand a few seconds before. _Lethal weapon_, Sylar considered. He'd learned a few things about Peter, as they'd spent so much time together. First - Peter really was dumb enough to use that screwdriver as a weapon. It was something Sylar had to keep in mind when toying with the man. Second - Peter responded well to social pressures. Looking at Peter expectantly tended to elicit conversation; looking aghast at the screwdriver now had the expected result of making Peter back down far more effectively than a stare-down ever would.

Peter blinked, caught himself, and looked away, putting the tool on the keys and returning to his work. "They weren't 'bimbos'," he grumbled. Chelsea, and all the rest, had been human beings. There was no magical dividing line that said a person didn't deserve respect because you hadn't known them for a certain length of time.

Sylar was quiet for a moment, listening as Peter plinked on keys and made a few adjustments. Entertaining as it was to set Peter off, sheer emotional response wasn't the point of his questions. He was trying to find out how Peter handled relationships and pry a little more into what he needed to do to get Peter to look twice at him. Or do more than look. He adjusted his language to make it more palatable. "These women you had sex with - did you love them?"

Peter gave him a sidelong glance before continuing. Sylar waited patiently for Peter's answer and after a few moments more, Peter shrugged and said, "Sort of. Maybe. I could have."

"What you're saying is that you're willing to have sex with people you don't love." That was a vital piece of information to glean from the interaction. Sylar leaned against the wall, basking in the implications of it. Peter's standards might not be as impossibly high as Sylar had thought.

Peter made a grumbling noise and shrugged one shoulder, the other arm inside the piano as he started on a new set of keys. "Yeah, guess so." He didn't like the way it sounded, but it was true.

Sylar had other things he was curious about, though, and returned to the questioning. "It's possible - that maybe one of them, or maybe someone else you knew better - could have gotten pregnant."

Peter snorted. "No. I told you that. Nothing ever came of it." Peter admitted to himself that it was conceivable that someone had gotten pregnant and he didn't know about it, but it seemed pretty remote. It wasn't like he'd used a false name or tried to avoid anyone he'd hooked up with. His standard 'pick up line', if you could call it that, was a straightforward introduction, after all, last name included.

Sylar gave a single shake of his head and turned towards his companion. "That's not what I mean. Sure - nothing happened. But let's think about 'what-if'. What if one of them had gotten pregnant?"

Peter gave him another side-eye, wishing he knew where Sylar was going with this. Because he was always going somewhere. Yes, to some extent Sylar was just passing the time in idle conversation, but these little forays of Sylar's always struck Peter as having an undisclosed goal, like they were little ability-collecting missions, substituting some piece of information or trick of social interaction for abilities. "What if she had?"

"Well, would you have married them?"

Peter went through another octave on the piano, comparing sound and tweaking the results. "Yes." Sylar opened his mouth, then shut it, as something about Peter's demeanor looked like he wasn't quite done speaking. A moment later he confirmed this, adding, "If she'd have me."

Sylar resisted the impulse to roll his eyes. Why anyone would pass up Peter Petrelli was a mystery to him. A creepy serial killer obsessed with vivisection and out-of-date mechanical timepieces, and had to deceive and manipulate just to get people to tolerate him? Yeah, no questions as to why he wasn't a chick magnet. But Peter? It was weird. And unexplained. Especially given how Peter obviously had both normal sexual urges and the inclination to act on them.

"Would you even consider suggesting an abortion?" Sylar explored.

"No." There was no hesitation on that. It was a topic Peter had discussed at length with friends both male and female. He was firm - he was never going to have an abortion. Of course as a man, he was never going to face that decision. Should one of his partners face it, and his input was allowed, he'd argue against it. "That would be why I'd offer to marry her. So she'd know I was serious."

"Oh, you're very serious, Peter."

Peter glanced over at him, not sure what that bland statement meant. It might have been either compliment or derision and Sylar's tone left it open to interpretation. Peter decided to take it as merely observation and went on.

Sylar leaned against the wall, facing the room at large. "So if you're willing to have sex with people you're not in love with, and you're willing to marry people who happen to conceive of you, then it follows that you're willing to marry people you don't love."

Peter grimaced with one side of his face and continued tuning. That, too, was true enough. He wondered if this was a lead-up to Sylar trying to prove that love and marriage had nothing to do with one another, which was bunk. He _hoped_ if he married someone he didn't love at the time that love would come eventually. He'd certainly do his best to try. Peter's idea of marriage, informed as it was by his Catholic upbringing, did not adhere to the popular romantic notions. If the people involved were madly in love, then that was wonderful. If they weren't, then they could work at it.

"That's quite a commitment," Sylar observed, knowing from Nathan's memories that Peter probably saw marriage as a lifetime obligation, much as Nathan had. Though that hadn't kept Nathan from straying. In fact, Sylar thought feeling trapped in a fairly loveless marriage had been a big part of Nathan's serial adultery.

"So's having sex with someone."

Sylar tilted his head. "How so? What commitment have you made?" His tone changed slightly to less preachy and more honestly interested. Peter had said something surprising.

Peter looked at him like Sylar was missing a few cards from the deck - not an unusual look between them, so Sylar ignored it. "You're having sex with someone. You're being _with_ them. You're being _intimate_. That's … you're promising trust, and respect."

Sylar laughed out loud. "All right, Mr. Romance, I get it now. No wonder you manage to con so many people into the sack." _What a hopeless dreamer. Nathan was right._

Now it was Peter's turn to tilt his head. "If you're having to _con_ them, then you're doing it wrong."

"Fine. Whatever. Most people aren't quite as …" _naïve? foolish? stupidly romantic?_ Sylar decided not to aggravate Peter more, so he picked a term less offensive than the other options, saying, "… sincere as you are." _Does Peter really think that way?_ Sylar considered the man's irritation about the 'bimbos' comment and decided he probably did. He gave Peter a side eye as the man went back to his tuning. Sylar tried to work out what this meant about his odds with Peter. On the one hand, if he could ever get Peter in bed (willingly), then it sounded like Peter took that physical act as some sort of oath. It was a deal, maybe even a semi-permanent truce. That made the whole thing extra-appealing. On the other hand, it made it even less likely that Peter would extend that privilege to the likes of Sylar. It went an uncomfortably long way towards explaining why Peter had showed no interest in him at all. No, that wasn't true - Peter had shown interest, several times. He just didn't act on it, which was pretty much the same thing.

Sylar stood there quietly, looking off at the corner of the room, just sharing space with Peter. It was something he'd learned to do fairly recently. And it was nice. He supposed it was something friends did, but he wasn't sure, having never had one, other than maybe Luke. Nathan's memories on it were fuzzy and tainted by class and rank. All the friendships he'd seen on TV were always choked with dialogue and action. Television didn't value contemplative moments like this, where two people could relax with each other.

Sylar had always been defensive around Virginia. She was jittery, a different idea bound to strike her at any given moment, and when her sweet Gabriel was around, too many of those ideas involved him. Martin's company was decidedly worse, as Gabriel's very presence annoyed him. The longer the older man had to put up with Gabriel being in his sight, doing something other than following Martin's immediate orders, the more dangerous it became. Sylar hadn't realized how much he craved simple companionship. Peter, so rich with all things, probably didn't even realize the gift he gave as he finished up with the piano.

Or, rather, he should have been finishing up. Instead, Peter was doing nothing at all, which caused Sylar to turn his eyes back towards the Italian, without making any other change. Peter was staring forward, at where Sylar's fingertips were idly rubbing at the top edge of the piano, tracing and retracing one of many scratches in the battered finish - this one deeper than most. Since he had Peter's attention, Sylar kept doing it, making the gestures a little bigger, caressing the slick wood. _What's he looking at? His eyes are focused. He's not staring off into space. He's watching me touch … Touch. We were just talking about sex. Is he thinking about me touching him?_

Softly, in a deep, but indifferent voice, Sylar asked, "How long has it been for you?"

Peter snapped out of it, starting guiltily (which Sylar adored, but he kept the smirk off his face for the moment - he was stalking his prey now and needed the concerned expression he was wearing). Peter blinked at Sylar a few times, then sighed and sniffed, hitting a few keys at random on the piano. "Been years." He hit a few more keys, wondering about the wisdom of telling Sylar this. "A couple years. Two."

Sylar waited, but that was all the elaboration Peter seemed willing to give. If he assumed that Peter had time traveled here, or otherwise pulled a Rip Van Winkle, then what Peter was saying was that he hadn't been laid for two years back from roughly Nathan's death. Sylar's brows pulled together. "What about that Ellen woman?"

"Emma!" Peter bit out.

Sylar knew her name. He just didn't call her by it, quite intentionally. He resented that Peter was so fixated on saving her that he'd put aside the natural enmity he owed his brother's murderer and thought Sylar would just obediently play Peter's little game. It was insulting, and so Sylar routinely insulted her memory. Peter was being huffy, which meant he was done talking unless prompted. Sylar canted his body towards Peter, leaning on the piano and working at being inoffensive. He let his face relax and his expression open. "So you and … Emma … never …?"

Peter scowled at him. "No."

"Really?" _Oh my. That's interesting_.

"It wasn't like that." Peter started over with the first notes, checking one after another and listening. "Yet," he added about halfway through. He'd liked Emma. It's just that so many other complicated things were going on at the time. It seemed wrong to try for anything more than friendship.

Sylar's brows climbed a little. "So how _is_ the hero act for getting people in bed?"

Peter glowered briefly at him, but answered fast, snapping, "I have no idea. I've only been with … two since I got my abilities."

"Ah, too busy saving the world?" Sylar asked sarcastically. _And yet you still found time to bed two different people. I got three. Sort of. So there._

"Guess so," Peter answered blandly, not rising to the bait. He finished with the instrument and shut the top, packing away his tools.

"You don't have to save the world anymore, Peter," Sylar said, and for that brief moment, he wasn't acting. He was making an offer and he could tell Peter understood it. At least in a way. He could tell from the way Peter glanced at him and then back down at the shoebox he'd used for the tools he'd brought.

"No, I do but … yeah." Peter frowned and grimaced. "Come on. Let's go get some nachos. How's that sound?"

Sylar straightened, gracefully accepting Peter turning him down. It hadn't been complete, he noticed. There was that 'yeah' in there, and then the refusal was followed up with an offer to spend more time together. He was wearing Peter down, he knew. It was just a matter of time and time was very much on the watchmaker's side.


	11. Missed Connection

"Tell me about the most beautiful girl you ever saw."

Peter smiled warmly as they sat together in the diner, enjoying coffee. "We were called for a delivery, but when we got there, the woman had already given birth in the home. It was the most beautiful little baby girl." His face glowed a little in memory.

Sylar scoffed. "You know what I meant." He rolled his eyes, trying to move Peter past the sappy bullshit and onto what he really wanted to know. "Fine - sexiest woman."

Peter sighed. "Yeah, okay. Best looking woman I ever saw … we got called to this nursing home."

"Peter-" Sylar tried to break in, not wanting some recounting of an aged starlet or whatever.

Peter grinned broadly. "No, seriously, listen. Dispatch told us she was twenty-five, but neither of us believed it. I assumed someone had misheard and it was ninety-five or something. But we got there a little late. There was already a fire rescue there. I don't know why they were there, really, but they were all crowded around her. She really was twenty-five. Even though she had some hives breaking out on her arms - she was having an allergic reaction - she was drop-dead gorgeous." He shook his head in remembered disbelief. "Like an angel and a pin-up model combined."

"In a nursing home," Sylar inquired flatly.

"Yeah, in a nursing home. She worked there. Not everyone good-looking is on TV, you know."

"No, I know that," Sylar said too quickly. _Some of them are paramedics._ He cleared his throat and added, "So what did you do?"

Peter eye-balled him suspiciously for a moment and then went on. "Anyway, I gave her some Benadryl and we took her to the hospital for observation. You've got to watch allergy cases for when the Benadryl wears off, but she was fine."

"Did you chat her up?"

"No, I let Hesam tech."

"Why? I thought he usually drove."

"Yeah, he does, except on transfers. I thought he'd really enjoy it and it wasn't like she was compromised or anything. She seemed to really like the attention from the firefighters, and Hesam was … well, she got plenty of attention."

"You had the most attractive woman you'd ever met, personally, and you let this other guy spend time alone with her in the back of the ambulance?"

"They weren't _doing_ anything, if that's what you're saying."

"No, that's not what I'm saying. Jeez, Peter." Sylar ran a hand through his hair. "Fine, okay. Most attractive guy."

Peter was quiet for a moment. "I think I lucked out. My partner at work … Hesam … is a really, really good-looking guy."

Sylar stared levelly at him, optional definitions of 'partner' running around in his head. "The guy you work with every day."

"Yeah. He's a really nice guy. Good head on his shoulders. I disappointed him a lot." Peter considered that his appreciation of Hesam's personality might be coloring his judgment some, but personality and outlook made such a huge difference that it was almost impossible for Peter to consider it separate from appearance.

"Your … _partner_."

Peter blinked up at him. "He's straight," he snapped.

"Are you _sure_?"

"He said so."

"So you've asked him?"

"It came up!" Peter said defensively.

"When you asked him out?"

"No!"

"So you've never gone out with him?"

"What? No! Well, we've gone out with the guys, the EMTs to go Houlihans sometimes, but no. Not with him. Like, not on a date."

"Does he know you're interested in him?"

"I'm not interested in him!" _Christ, Sylar, cut it out! Interrogation, much?_

"But you just said …"

"Yeah, so? Just because someone looks good doesn't mean I'm into them." Not that, Peter knew, Hesam wouldn't be nice, but he was straight and that was that. "As far as that goes, you know, Mohinder is incredibly attractive, but … no."

"No?"

"No," Peter echoed firmly. "He has no interest in people at all. Only in what they can do." Sylar made no answer, just regarding Peter silently. "You're really attractive, too, but I'm not making any moves on you, either."

"So I've noticed," Sylar said, voice chilly.

Peter sighed and looked away, chewing his lip slowly. Finally he said, "Physical beauty is like a set of clothes. It looks good on people. It catches my eye. I look more. Maybe I like what I see; maybe I _really_ like what I see. But clothes aren't why I fall in love with someone. I don't think to myself, 'Wow, that's an incredible dress, I need to ask her out' or 'That's an incredible suit, I love the way it flatters his form, I wonder if he'd let me try his jacket on.' I suppose it helps to get my attention - you know, I'm human - but it's not what I'm looking for."

"What _are_ you looking for?"

Peter looked back at Sylar, making eye contact. Sylar didn't look away from him, eyes boring into Peter's until Peter tore his gaze away. "I dunno. A connection, friendship, a good time, something that matters - to be someone who matters to someone, even just for a little while." _'It's my turn to be somebody now, Nathan.'_

"A connection?" Sylar said, sounding dumb-founded.

"Yeah, guess so." Peter glanced up at him, but Sylar was still staring at him too intently. "Stop staring at me, man. It's creepy."

Sylar gave three slow blinks and looked away. _A connection …_


	12. Morality

**Title:** Morality  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Words:<strong> 430  
><strong>Summary:<strong> "Only Peter could see a murder spree as a quest for salvation."  
><strong>Notes:<strong> Inspired by .com/talks/jonathan_haidt_on_the_moral_?

* * *

><p>"Do you think people can change and improve themselves?"<p>

"Obviously," Sylar muttered, peering into the clockwork gearing he was trying to fix.

"How so?"

"How is it obvious?" Sylar asked. Peter nodded. "Peter, I … why would I have been gathering abilities if it wasn't to make myself better?"

"_Morally_ better?"

"It's the same thing."

"What?" Peter sounded, and was, aghast.

Sylar blinked at him slowly, in the way he did when he thought Peter was being particularly dense. He watched as Peter swallowed down the rest of the outburst he wanted to make. Then Sylar looked away and continued working, letting Peter sort through the issue by himself. As he'd become more familiar with the man, he'd come to see that Peter's brain handled ideas and information very differently from his own. If Sylar didn't understand something right away, he tended not to understand it at all and required new information to make sense of it.

As a result, Sylar learned or dismissed things immediately - he either got it or he didn't, and he could act on that straight off. Peter, though, might take the same information and chew through it for a while, coming to the answer (or not) eventually. Because of that, even when Peter didn't understand something, he was prone to follow along anyway, assuming that it would work out sooner or later and make sense. Peter was also prone to stewing on things - something that was occasionally productive for him. If Sylar stewed on something, it never helped at all and only meant he was stuck in a rut. Peter, though, might spin his wheels or he might suddenly get traction. It was interesting - to Sylar - and had taught him to just let Peter process at times.

"Might makes right?" Peter hazarded after a minute.

"Not quite."

Peter scratched slowly at his chin as more seconds ticked by. "Morality … is framed … by those with power."

Sylar smiled slowly. He wouldn't have put it that way, precisely, but yes, that was his point. "Exactly."

Peter pondered that for a few more moments. "I don't agree," he asserted firmly. Sylar shrugged without surprise. Peter's agreement or lack thereof didn't change the world. "So all those powers you were collecting," Peter went on, "you thought that would make everything all right? You thought that would save your soul?"

Sylar jerked, the calipers he'd been using to measure the gearing ratio clattering to the floor as he stared at Peter in shocked silence.


	13. Defending His Memory

**Title:** Defending His Memory  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Words:<strong> 420  
><strong>Setting:<strong> Any of my various Wall settings, or post BNW  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter tries to explain to Sylar the connection between grief and love.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> Heroes_contest "Defended" entry. Inspired by WWW dot Slate dot com/blogs/quora/2012/03/23/when_should_someone_be_finished_grieving_.html

* * *

><p>"We're made to love each other. That's what we're here for, to meet other people, learn about them, learn to love them. That's what heaven's about - we just exist in love. God's love, I suppose, but loving people, loving each other is our first experience of that. It's biological. We're sexual organisms. It's natural. All of that, 'love one another; be fruitful and multiply'? Yeah, I believe that. We're wired to make love to each other. That's how we come into being. It's what we should do with our lives."<p>

"I'm never going to have your children, Peter," Sylar said blandly.

Peter reached out for him, caressed Sylar's forearms and leaned in to kiss him gently, first on the mouth, then his stubble-strewn cheek, then nipping along his jaw towards his chin. Sylar shut his eyes in bliss and made a contented sigh. Peter smiled at him and pulled back. "You like that, right?"

"No, Peter, I only melt inside like that over things I detest."

Peter grinned and gave him a quick smooch before settling back down. "I know I might never have kids. Lots of people don't. That's not a big deal. But just because someone is blind doesn't mean people aren't meant to see."

"You think being gay is a disability?"

"No, it's not," Peter said with a somewhat exasperated sigh. "Okay, maybe that was a bad example. Let's say that just because a woman chooses not to have children doesn't mean her body isn't made to do it."

"So now being gay is a choice?"

"Not having sex with women is a choice. Not wanting to isn't a choice."

"That's kind of convoluted."

"Yeah, well, I'm not a genius like you. But back to my point, we're meant to love each other. Grief is a way of honoring that love, for those you can't be with."

Sylar shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing.

"I'm never going to stop loving the people I've lost. I don't think you're going to either - not if you loved them to start with. There's no reason why that emotion would end. You still love them, and so you still miss them-"

"Talk about yourself, Peter," Sylar said curtly. "Not me."

Peter reached out and took Sylar's hand, which was reluctantly allowed. "I'm going to miss Nathan for the rest of my life. I'm not going to get over it. I'm not going to forget it. I'm not going to pretend it doesn't matter. The same goes for everyone I love, especially you."


	14. Click

**Title:** Click  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Words:<strong> 400  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Notes:<strong>Peter and Sylar are sitting on a park bench. An idle discussion about parks leads to pigeons and then to birds in general, flocking habits and finally to mate selection. Also, I am experimenting with using pure dialogue, as much as possible.

* * *

><p>"I don't know how much thought birds put into mate choice. They're monogamous, sure, but their brains are <em>tiny<em>."

"Not all birds are monogamous, Peter."

"Okay, sure. But some are. I don't think they have much control over it, like when two sparrows get into a fight. I don't think they have any big thought process about it. They see each other and they react - that's it."

"So that's what you think love is? Just a reflex?"

"Sort of. I mean, it's not something people get a choice in. It either clicks or it doesn't."

"What makes it click for you?"

"Ha. I think I click pretty easy with people. Too easy. That's the problem. Sometimes I wish I could turn it off."

Sylar raised a contemplative brow and said nothing.

"I saw a picture in a biology book showing this male frog who had grabbed this fish. You know, male frogs sit around croaking to try to attract mates and when something shows up that fits their profile, they just go for it, grab on and don't let go. So this frog had a fish." Peter laughed uneasily. "Like that was going to work out well."

"I don't think our choices are always what's best for us."

"That's my point - it's not a _choice_. It's biological."

"So you think love's nothing special."

"It's special - no reason why it wouldn't be."

"But you said it was just a neurochemical process."

"So? Who you _are_ is a neurochemical process. Doesn't mean you're not special. Just because we know it takes sperm and an egg to make a new life doesn't make it any less a miracle. What's miraculous is that it works at all." Peter sighed. "It's a complex system, like one of your clocks. Does knowing how they're made make them any less fascinating to you?"

Peter looked over when several beats passed without response. Sylar said softly, "You think I'm special."

Peter blushed immediately, and _hard_.

Sylar's brows climbed as everything made sense. "That's why you're going on about this." He grinned broadly, taunting, "Your tiny little brain didn't give you a choice!"


	15. The House of the Second Chance

**Title:** The House of the Second Chance  
><strong>Genre:<strong> Song lyrics (based on The House of the Rising Sun by the Animals, but the Muse version works better for tone)  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar, Peter  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Words:<strong> 150  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall

I am a man from New York  
>They call Mister Sylar<br>And I've been the ruin of many a poor boy  
>From me you should run far<p>

My mother was a mystery  
>She died some years ago<br>My father was a murderer  
>Till cancer laid him low<p>

Now the only thing this killer has  
>Is heartache and regret<br>And all the powers that I have gained  
>Have not seen my needs met<p>

(Organ solo)

Oh mother, tell your children  
>Not to do what I have done<br>Spend your life in blood and misery  
>With no end but dying alone<p>

Well, I got one foot in purgat'ry  
>The other foot in the grave<br>I'm going back to New York now  
>To see who I can save<p>

Cuz there is a man from New York here  
>Named Peter Petrelli<br>And he's been the savior of many a one  
>I'm glad he came for me.<p> 


	16. Mad Libs

**Title:** Mad Libs  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar, Peter  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Words:<strong> 1000  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Early on, Sylar and Peter share a day at the library, but Peter wants something a little more interactive.

Sylar glanced up when Peter finally joined him at one of the reading tables in the library. He looked over at Peter's book choice, wondering what Peter had chosen after such a lengthy search. His expression turned to disgust as he saw that Peter had in his hands a children's activity book. Brows rising in disbelief, Sylar said, "I see you found something appropriate to your reading level."

"Oh yeah," Peter snarked back, "I think what took me so long to find it was the long words in the title." He grinned then and opened the book.

To Sylar's dismay, he'd already dog-eared a place-marker. He growled, putting his gaze back on his own book and for once, saying nothing about the mistreatment of literature. What was there **to** say? But then again, despite his rather negative opinion of Peter's reading habits, children's books weren't normal for him.

Peter studied a page of text, then said, "Okay. This is interactive."

Sylar raised his head. _What?_

"I need a name," Peter asked brightly.

"Sylar." He craned his head to see what Peter was doing, but Peter pulled the book back.

"No cheating! And I need a second name. It's not my fault my book's more interesting that yours!"

"Peter." _What the hell is he doing?_

Peter now pulled out a pencil and began writing in the book. Sylar started to object, but it was an activity book and writing in it was part of its purpose. _That's not a library book. Where the hell did he find that?_

"Okay, adjective."

Sylar glared at him. "Stupid."

"Okay, awesome." Peter scribbled that in, chortling.

"A verb ending with -ing."

_Mad libs._ He placed it now, vaguely remembering the game from grammar exercises. More pointedly, he remembered the other kids howling in glee over unlikely and wacky stories they produced during rainy recesses spent indoors. He'd never been part of those games. _He wants to play with me? Or is he making fun of me?_ His imagination began to run riot with the possible combinations of their names. "Killing."

"Oo!" Peter's brows flashed upward like he was impressed. "Another name?"

"Bob." _Bishop,_ but he didn't add that.

"And a noun."

_Knife? Gun? Telekinesis?_ "Brick." He recalled newspapers in Spanish held down by a brick.

"Yeah." Peter shrugged. "Okay, that works." Scribble. "Another adjective."

"Heavy." _As all bricks should be. Unless they're Legos._

"And a name of a celebrity."

He said the first thing that came to mind, which he regretted as soon as the words left his mouth. "Bob Marley."

"Really?" Peter chuckled. "I would never have guessed."

Sylar shut his book and pushed it to the side, fingers itching to snatch Peter's workbook away from him and see what the story was.

"Um, an article of clothing."

_Should I go exotic or mundane? A propeller hat or a shirt? Or a thong? What does this have to do with Bob Marley?_ He decided to play it safe. "A shirt."

"Good choice. Now a liquid."

_Blood. But that's too obvious. Sperm's too gross. Unlike Peter, I do not have the mind of a juvenile._ He ignored that it had been the second thing to come to mind. "Milk," he said defiantly.

"Huh," Peter grunted as he wrote that in. Apparently that one didn't fit too well. "Ah, almost done. Need another adjective."

Sylar let his eyes roam over Peter's crowning glory and said, "Long-haired."

"Ha." He wasn't looking. "And a number."

"Five." _With a decimal point? Something outlandish?_

"Okay. That's great!" Peter reviewed the product, grin widening. "Oh, wait, one more name. First and last."

He was caught between being pleased to be included in a game, and insecure that he was the butt of a joke. "Nathan Petrelli," he growled, glad of the opportunity to say the name with impunity.

Peter glanced up at him, smile fading for a moment, but dutifully wrote it in. "That's kind of weirdly deep," he said after a moment of reflection.

He seemed done, and he wasn't offering to share, so Sylar reached across the table and grabbed the book away from Peter. "Give that to me!" Peter didn't try to take it back. Sylar's eyes ran quickly across the text:

* * *

><p><em>Dear Sister Mary, <em>

_I am writing you to ask if you would consider letting my son Sylar come back to school at St. Peter. I know that he behaved in a way that was stupid, but if you are willing to speak to him, he would like to sincerely apologize for the following. _

_1) killing his teacher. _

_2) Calling his classmate Bob a 'brick'. _

_3) Bringing heavy magazines with naked photos of Bob Marley to school. _

_4) Lifting up Sister Mary Katherine's shirt and taking a peek. _

_5) Writing his name in milk on the side of the school. _

_Please forgive him, and consider letting him back. He really is a long-haired child, and has since been put on medication that he is taking five times a day. He misses everyone very much. _

_Sincerely,  
>Nathan Petrelli<em>

* * *

><p>He snorted. "Deep?"<p>

"Yeah," Peter said. "It's like your conscience writing a letter to God."

He looked at it again. _'St. Peter'._ That **was** a bit creepy, given he'd mentally applied that moniker to Peter more than once. _No, it's just random word choice._ "Are you suggesting that my conscience is named Nathan Petrelli?"

"Well … it would probably be an improvement."

He shot Peter a look of death.

Peter met it briefly, then broke eye contact, smiling the whole while. Then he shoved the pencil over towards Sylar. "Your turn," Peter said.

Sylar picked up the pencil slowly. _I get to play, too?_

"Go on. Next one's called 'A Letter to my Bride.' Ought to be a blast."

_I get to play, too._ Sylar smiled a little, lightening up and glancing from Peter to the book, which he centered in front of himself. He let his eyes roam over the words and blanks. "Okay, but I get to pick the first one." He filled in the blank: 'To my dearest _', with his own name, letting Peter fabricate a love letter to him. _**That**__ will be funny_. "Now an emotion."


	17. Butter Butt

**Title:** Butter Butt  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar, Peter  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Butter used as a lubricant  
><strong>Words:<strong> 2500  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Pretty much PWP. Sylar has been touching Peter up an awful lot. He finally gets a favorable response out of it.

* * *

><p>Sylar thought this was a good time to get the vanilla down. Peter was in front of the spice cabinet, packing brown sugar according to the directions for the cookies. He was positioned perfectly - a situation Sylar had been waiting for. Sylar stepped up close behind him - way too close, brushing-his-body-close - and reached up over him to open the cabinet, brushing Peter again as he leaned in, practically pressing his body to Peter's, even if it was a light touch. The contact high was so intoxicating it gave Sylar a head rush.<p>

He'd expected a grunt, or even more, a verbalized objection. Possibly he'd get elbowed or shoved. Those were the sort of things that had happened before when he'd done things like this. He didn't expect the low, indistinct noise that Peter tried to stifle. It was so surprising that Sylar, usually smoother than that, fumbled moving the cinnamon out of the way and blinked in astonishment. _Was that … a moan? Desire? What the hell was that?_

Peter had flattened himself to the counter and was perfectly still, his operations with the brown sugar on hold. Sylar set the cinnamon container back upright, retrieving the small, dark glass bottle of vanilla extract. He shifted back, shutting the cabinet, and since Peter hadn't objected, he did the whole, full-body contact all over again. Just because. Peter tucked his head down and to the side, evincing a slight tremor that was no doubt a shudder in the making. _Whoa. That's not a 'fuck off'._ Sylar set the bottle down without moving his feet at all, remaining right behind his partner-in-cookie-crafting. He waited a beat, again expecting to be rebuffed, but the absence of a refusal spoke loud in the silence.

"You liked that," Sylar purred accusatively, rocking back to being directly behind Peter. _Definitely a shudder._ Muscles flexed in Peter's neck and jaw as his head came up a little at the words. _Tension now. Maybe anger? That's not good._ "You don't have to agree," Sylar murmured, trying to sooth. Peter exhaled. _Good sign._ "You don't have to do anything at all." Sylar bent his head to Peter's shoulder, nipping it firmly, still expecting to get whacked in the face over this. Peter's head went back down, though and the set of his shoulders relaxed.

Sylar touched Peter's sides very lightly, checking for permission, poised for a negative reaction. Peter made another low sound in his throat, choked and quiet. He swallowed more noisily. Sylar plucked at Peter's shirt, drawing it up as he turned his head and inhaled the scent of the man at the base of his neck. There was warmth from his skin and his body radiating up. _Getting a little hot under the collar, are we?_ He pursed his lips and blew softly, getting a sudden intake of breath from Peter and a fully body, uninhibited shiver. Sylar's face brightened. He watched gooseflesh show on Peter's neck. _Piloerection,_ he thought, recalling the word for it. _Are you getting erect elsewhere, hm?_

His fingers touched smooth, warm skin, sliding over Peter's sides with both hands, inwards towards his belly and up, amazed that he was being allowed this, but then again, Sylar wasn't the only one frustrated and wanting. It had been more than a year for Peter at the very least - much longer for Sylar. "I can understand how difficult this must be for you." Peter tensed again, but Sylar went on, "It doesn't have to be difficult. You're not asking for this. It's just something that's happening." His hands explored Peter's hard, flat chest as he cupped his groin to the man's muscular butt. "It wasn't your idea." Peter started breathing harder, pushing back from the counter just a little to firm up the contact between them.

_He's going to let me do this. Oh! Man oh man. He really is. Is that the angle I have to work? No responsibility? No blame for his delicate Petrelli conscience? I can handle that. Make me the guilty party, Peter. Wouldn't be the first time._ He turned his hands and drew his fingernails lightly down Peter's chest and stomach, from pectorals to waistline, while he thrust forward with his hips hard enough to trap the guy between his body and the counter. Peter called out, loudly, shamelessly, his voice bouncing around in the small kitchen. His hands came back to grip Sylar's hips, the first definite sign of reciprocation he'd given.

Sylar started pushing his hips against him regularly, rubbing his rapidly growing hardness against Peter's ass. Peter spread his legs as if instinctively, pressing back receptively. _Damn, does he ever want it! Little pervert. How long have you been fantasizing that eventually I'd just bend you over something and take you, absolving you of all onus? Send me a fucking note next time, Petrelli, and I'll help you out._

When Peter shoved back harder against him, braced against the counter, Sylar dropped his hands to the front of Peter's jeans, caressing that enticing bulge. Peter wasn't light in the pants. He wasn't enormous, but he was enough. Peter whimpered in need and Sylar could hear the change in quality of sound when the man bit his lip. _So sexy. Oh my God._ Sylar's own desire was starting to burn hot. He wanted to know how far he could go and he wanted to go there fast. He was pretty sure the answer was 'all the way', but he was still holding himself back. _Patience. You've been patient all this time. Just ease him into to it and he'll be yours._ Sylar's hands worked the top of the man's pants, popping the button open. Peter stiffened again, this time his head whipping around and for the first time Sylar caught a good look at his face. Peter was terrified. Or at least very frightened.

The expression brought to Sylar's mind times from long ago when he'd been uninterested in an advance very much like this, but had to take it anyway. He didn't want to think about where his words came from: "It'll be all right. It'll be like nothing ever happened. We won't talk about it later." He said them softly, instead of the rough, intimidating tone from his memory. He rubbed his hands over Peter's hips soothingly, and then down the line of his arms to cover his hands, fingers twining briefly. Peter turned his face away again, letting it hang down as he lifted one hand and took it to his fly, unzipping. He took the surprising step of pushing his garments all the way down. Then he reached over with a slightly shaking hand and pulled over the softened butter.

_Oh! All the fucking way, _Sylar thought, brows rising_. Not just the bump and grind then, eh? You don't do anything halfway, do you Petrelli?_ He ran his hands around and over Peter's cheeks, kneading and spreading them methodically. He leaned in again to cup the line of Peter's body with his own, biting and then kissing at his neck, wondering how Peter liked it - fast and rough? Slow and gentle? He couldn't ask - not without making Peter implicate himself. The lack of words when drawing the butter over said everything.

He reached over and dipped two fingers into the butter, rolling them for a thorough coating. With his right hand he held Peter's shoulder where it joined the neck, a silly precaution as Peter wasn't going anywhere, but it had been more necessary with Gabriel all those years ago. The moans Peter made as Sylar wormed his way inside were incredibly gratifying - not sounds Gabriel had ever made. _Enjoying the hell out of this, I see_. Sylar smiled, pleased with that. Peter shifted like his knees were weak, but he didn't go down and his pants around his ankles kept him in place. _Oh, yes. Trapped here_.

He opened his pants, one-handed, and coated himself further with butter. Lube was the trick, he knew. He pulled Peter's ass up and bent his knees slightly, lining himself up as his trousers fell to mid thigh. "Hold still," he murmured - another rote command made meaningless by the context, but Peter obeyed anyway. He nudged inside, finding Peter tight and hot.

Peter groaned deeply, getting out, "Oh, yeah. Yeah. Yeah."

_Little more talkative with my dick in your ass? Just think of the wonderful conversations we could have._ Sylar started working his way in and out with short prods. Peter shook, his breathing uneven and wracked by moans and mewls. _So fucking responsive. Noisy little bastard. Oh God, yes. Come for me, Peter._ The tail of Peter's shirt kept dropping between his groin and Peter's cheeks, which was annoying. He loved the alternating warmth and the lewd slapping noise his lower gut made against Peter's posterior. He yanked the interfering fabric out and tucked it into itself at Peter's neck, hearing Peter chuckle a little at his discomfiture.

Sylar had the rhythm down now, moving all the way in and out, his cock entirely encased in Peter's body, then drawing it out only to slam it back home again. He held the man's hips and caressed his sides, reaching up to claw his way down Peter's chest again, listening to the symphony of sex sounds Peter let loose with, along with the occasional expletive or encouragement.

Sylar started moving faster as Peter was shoving back on him more aggressively, hands braced on the counter and ass lifted. The guy was rocking up on his tip-toes and then back into him. Sylar followed the pattern, then sped it up doubletime. Peter's cries changed tenor. Whatever he was doing, it was totally working for Peter, who sounded like he was choking and moaning at the same time. A few seconds later, Peter shoved the brown sugar and measuring cup out of the way, granules littering the countertop as he curled over on it, no longer able to hold himself up against Sylar reaming him out. He collapsed, letting it hold him up against the barrage of ceaseless stimulation.

One of Peter's hands found his dick, grasping the tip and squeezing as he raised up on his toes and stayed there, tension filling his frame. Sylar rammed into him harder, pounding him with everything he had. He could feel himself starting to come undone, warmth flushing him as the world seemed to contract so that the only important thing in it was his dick and Petrelli's delicious ass. Peter's breath caught in a gasp, released in a ragged, "Ah-h-h!" and Sylar felt the man's anus clench hard around his shaft. Peter's knees buckled suddenly, but Sylar held him, burying himself entirely within for his own release.

He held in place, panting while the room stopped spinning and everything came back into focus. He pried his fingers out of Peter's hips, where they'd dug in convulsively for his last thrusts. Peter made a tiny pained noise, blew out air to knock his hair out of the way (though it only fell back over his face) and then shook with a lingering spasm that contagiously transferred to Sylar, making him grip Peter's body anew as his own aftershock ran through him. He pulled back finally, patting the small of Peter's back and tugging up his pants.

As he took the two steps over to get paper towels, Peter straightened. Sylar returned, offering them to the man and then cleaning his hand and himself. He didn't know what to expect for 'next' or how Peter would react. Peter got himself taken care of and pulled up his jeans, refastening them. Sylar absently scanned the counter. Other than needing more butter and having to re-measure the sugar, all was still in order. He reached out and righted the fallen, but fortunately unopened, bottle of vanilla as Peter stepped next to him. Peter touched his hip and now it was Sylar who was apprehensive, not sure what would happen. He had the feeling that he ought to leave - that was the behavior of his only role model for this sort of thing with another male, but it wasn't Sylar's true instinct.

Peter leaned up and kissed him. A jolt ran through Sylar and his breathing quickened again - not arousal, but just the electric sensation of lips against his. It was the first time they'd kissed one another - quick and sweet, a firm press and then over with, leaving Sylar staring in surprise. Peter paused for a moment, and then did it again. This time Sylar kissed back. _This is not off-limits? Peter, you're kissing me on the mouth, looking right at me. Are you okay with this? With what happened?_

"Thank you," Peter said after they parted.

"Peter …" Sylar swallowed uneasily, caught between pretending arrogance and feeling the vulnerability that was running riot through him. "You don't have to acknowledge this. That was the deal." _Your 'free pass', like the one all the Petrellis get._

"I won't do that to you." He patted Sylar's hip again and hugged him, pulling him in close to kiss Sylar's still-very-surprised face.

Sylar blinked, eyes watering unaccountably. _Must be some side effect of sex._ He pulled Peter's shirt out from where he'd tucked it into his collar and smoothed it down, then as they parted he raised his hands to straighten the collar fastidiously. Bringing his hands around to the front of Peter's head, he busily brushed the guy's silly bangs out of his face and then swiped brown sugar from his cheek. Sylar let his fingers trail down the sides of Peter's face, not sure what to do about these sudden compulsions to care for Peter. _Probably just another side effect. Maybe an instinct. A biological imperative. Hell if I know._ He straightened the front of Peter's shirt, too, feeling nervous and self-conscious, but doing it anyway.

"Thank you," Peter repeated, dropping his voice a little and tilting his head as if in emphasis for his words.

Sylar looked at him blankly, not sure what response Peter was looking for. _What does he want from me? Am I allowed to talk about it? Would I be better off not to? What if I say the wrong thing? _At a loss, he responded with, "Cookies?"

Peter chuckled and rolled his eyes, heading to the sink to wash up more properly. "Sure. Cookies." Peter sounded amused, but Sylar had the nagging feeling he'd missed something there. Only later did he realize it was as simple as 'you're welcome.'


	18. Feet First

**Title:** Feet First  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar, Peter  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Words:<strong> 1400  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall, Bricks  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter and Sylar are reading on the couch in Sylar's apartment, but reading isn't really what Peter wants.

_Catcher in the Rye_. Peter remembered it vaguely from high school, but that was about it. It was failing to hold his attention now just as it had then. He kept wondering if maybe he was able to read the book because Sylar had memorized it; wondering if he was really reading it at all or if his mind was just making up the words to make him think he was reading it. He shifted uncomfortably on Sylar's couch, his eyes glazing over at the multitude of uninteresting letters on the pages.

Sylar was slouched on the other end with his own book, looking content and totally absorbed. He hadn't moved a muscle for at least ten minutes, besides the occasional flip of a page or the back and forth scanning of his eyes. Peter tried crossing his legs at the ankles, thinking that would give him a better position. A few minutes later, that wasn't working either. He toed off his shoes and hooked one foot up under his knee. It was better, though he didn't like putting his feet on someone else's furniture. His own - sure. His favorite reading positions were on his stomach or back, or on his side on his bed. Somehow the couch that seemed to mold itself perfectly to Sylar's form just wasn't working for Peter.

He glanced over at his companion. _Maybe it's the proportions. He's a little longer in the torso than I am. Taller. Maybe that's it. Maybe I should just adjust this pillow._ He did, wallowing it around. Sylar glanced over as he turned a page, but said nothing. Still, Peter felt annoyed and chastened to have distracted. When that didn't work either, he took the crass step of turning lengthwise on the couch, his back to the arm of the furniture, and putting his feet up on it, knees bent. Sylar gave him a longer look, but thankfully didn't object. Instead, Sylar shifted position so his legs stuck out in Peter's general direction, canting his back so he sat a little against the arm on his end, his body diagonal to the couch. It was a mirroring gesture and Peter calmed.

Peter sighed, feeling a little better like this. He went back to the book, trying to recall what little had happened in the plot so far. Soon the characters were drawing in his attention. His feet slipped from the tight, don't-take-up-too-much-space position he'd been holding. They crept over to the middle of the couch as he relaxed. Sylar was way on the other side anyway. Peter had his feet hug the back of the couch, keeping distance between their bodies, observing an unspoken boundary. He wiggled, settling his butt in as his torso gradually and unintentionally followed his feet, sliding down over the minutes.

Sylar shifted carefully again, and something about the care of his motion caught Peter's attention, tensing his whole body. Sylar caught the stiffening, looking over at Peter apprehensively. Peter realized he was taking up almost two-thirds of the couch now. It was unconscionably rude. He started to sit up, but Sylar reached for his feet, saying, "No! Peter …" Peter stopped. Sylar did, too, with his hand a few inches from Peter's ankles. Swallowing cautiously, Sylar said, "Put your feet back here, beside me. You can straighten out all the way then." Peter eyed him warily. Was this a trap? Why would Sylar offer that? "It's okay," Sylar tried to sooth, his expression one of trying to calm a nervous child.

It made Peter feel like he was overreacting. He extended his feet slowly, though, watching all the while. Sylar smiled a little. "Yeah," and nodded a little too fast. Peter sniffed and looked back to his book pointedly, trying to act like 'yeah, this is normal'. After about a minute, he wriggled a little to get comfortably situated. Sylar canted himself a bit more, echoing Peter's position except that his own feet were on the floor. It was companionable. Peter's feet had crossed that boundary at Sylar's request. They tingled a little, which seemed ridiculous. Peter sniffed again, trying to read.

Minutes passed. Peter's feet were cooling. He dug the toes between the cushions at the join of the arm and back of the couch. It created a couple inches of space between them. At Sylar's glance down, Peter invited, "You can scoot back a little if you want." That was all he'd intended, but Sylar wasn't a mind-reader. He scooted back until his butt was touching Peter's ankles and calves, crossing whatever new boundary was in place between them and initiating contact. Peter stifled his response to that, focusing his eyes sightlessly on his book, trying to figure out why such a nonsexual touch was setting him off, making his stomach do funny things and his heart beat faster. It probably had to do with how little he and Sylar touched normally. Casual touch was very important to Peter, and he'd had very little of it here, deliberately minimizing it every time it happened, drawing lines between them just like with his feet.

He took a deep breath and let it out, letting himself enjoy the body heat against himself, giving himself permission for it to be pleasant and satisfying to feel someone else against him. There was nothing more - it was just a touch. His eyes slid shut as his back relaxed, and then his neck. His feet warmed and then the rest of him, too. Tension drained out of him. He let the book rest on his chest, thinking he'd go back to reading it in … well, just a minute or two. First, he would rest - the book wasn't that important. How long had it been since he'd been so amiably with someone? Years, at least. A few moments later, his body twitched in one of those pre-sleep, full body jerks. He turned, vaguely aware of where his feet were, thinking muzzily that Sylar would just have to deal.

He felt Sylar's hand rest on his topmost calf as he settled back down. It just touched there, creating contact and warmth - not rubbing or massaging, but just being there. Peter sighed in unabashed pleasure. He blinked his eyes open slowly, seeing the tops of Sylar's sneakers. Possessed of an entirely crazy idea, he said thickly, "Take your shoes off," without stopping to think it through.

With a second of hesitation, Sylar complied. Peter didn't look at him. He didn't want to. He knew what he wanted - he could feel it inside of himself - and he didn't want to see Sylar not understanding, or being confused, or blaming or angry or whatever. The man's shoes removed, Peter reached down and snagged at his sock-clad feet. "Come here." Sylar let him pick up his feet and pull them up to the couch in front of Peter, against his chest. They were bony and smelly and it was awkward, but they were _human_. And somehow, holding _this_ part of Sylar, Peter could divorce himself from the idea that he was hugging _Sylar_ to himself. He could blot that thought out and just curl his upper body around another, holding, touching, feeling he was with someone and not so desperately alone. He could pretend to himself that later, when he woke up and rose, that it had just been … damn, he had no idea how to explain this … well, maybe it was just so weird that Sylar wouldn't mention it. Fuck it all.

He held Sylar's feet to him like they were the oddest of teddy bears, and felt a slight pressure on his calf as Sylar gave him a small squeeze. It felt like approval. Peter sagged, getting his way, perverse and wrong though he thought it was. Sylar's foot funk didn't begin to push aside the soul-deep contentment he felt at having something to hold … something very much like a person. Book entirely forgotten, he drifted off to sleep.


	19. Easy is as Easy Does

**Title:** Easy is as Easy Does  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar, Peter  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>WarningsContents:** Masturbation, oral sex, voyeurism, someone sucks on a toe  
><strong>Words:<strong> 2,100  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall, Bricks, Wall Verse  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Peter jacks off at Sylar's command.**  
>Notes:<strong> Sequel to means2bhuman's "Show Me". Fits in Wall Verse as chapter 23.2 with Show Me being 23.1.

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><p><em>You are so fucking easy,<em> Sylar thought. Sometimes he felt like he'd won the relationship lottery with Peter. The guy was _cooperative_. Sylar settled in for the show, having situated Peter on the floor in front of him while he sat on the couch. His victim was blindfolded, the better to let Sylar focus entirely on observing Peter's self-pleasure without the distraction of being watched in return. "Let me see what you like to do when you're all by yourself. I'm sure you can't keep your hands off that body. You've never had the self-control …" Sylar purred.

Peter pulled in air, his hands rubbing over his knees first of all in a gesture that looked nervous to start, then more sensuous as he relaxed into it. _Hm_, Sylar pondered, spreading his own legs and thinking about those hands running over his own body. He'd had the pleasure many times now and even though Sylar's basis for comparison was limited, Peter seemed very, very skilled. _You don't start right in even on yourself? All indirect to begin with, I see._ Sylar rolled his own hands over his knees, watching Peter's motions as he stroked down the outside of his own thighs and mimicking them languorously.

"I like looking at you," Sylar murmured, and Peter smiled suddenly. "Come on, big boy. Show me what else you touch when you're desperate, lonely, wanting … How do you satisfy those urges an empath must feel so strongly?"

As before, Sylar's rumbling words seemed to turn Peter on all by themselves. Peter's mouth opened slightly and his head tilted back. His hands rose past his hips, over his stomach and across his chest, where they paused to stroke lightly over the flat planes of his pectorals. Sylar knew well what that lightly tanned skin felt like - so smooth and naturally hairless that he would have burned with envy if Peter didn't generously allow him to indulge himself and feel it as often as he liked. Sylar licked his lips, wishing he could kiss that sinful, clever mouth without spoiling this. He'd gotten a little too involved last time.

Peter's hands returned to his thighs, curling slightly to draw his nails down the outside and then again across the top, leaving faint red furrows. _He likes the stimulation … either I've been overdoing it, or maybe he's just wary of letting __**me**__ hurt him. _Peter breathed deeper after the scratching, reaching up to brush his cheeks with his knuckles, then straightening his fingers to stroke over his chest again. His fingertips flicked over his nipples and he arched his back slightly, muscles flexing and tensing beautifully under his skin. Sylar's fingers itched to take the place of Peter's and play him like an instrument.

"Sweet, innocent-appearing Peter, but we both know the truth, don't we?" Sylar rumbled, as he pitched his voice down for maximum effect. "You'd do _anything_ for affection, no matter how nasty. You're a _slut_, with such constant desires as to make even the busiest whore blush. Show me how dirty you really are."

"Ha," Peter exhaled, reaching down to stroke and position his stiffening cock. Sylar was just about to say something about that when Peter scooted forward, right to him. Sylar spread his legs out of the way, not sure what was up. Peter kept going until his knees touched the couch and then he reached out on either side to find Sylar's shins. Sylar frowned. This wasn't part of his plan, not that Peter was all that good at sticking to plans. (Particularly ones Sylar hadn't even told him about, but where was the fun in that?) While Sylar was stewing over it, Peter's fingers trailed deliciously up and down Sylar's legs, giving him goose-bumps. Peter's breathing accelerated he made a low moan in the back of his throat.

_Oh, really?_ Sylar thought of that response. _Does he need touch that badly? _To test, Sylar reached out with his left foot, rubbing it up the outside of Peter's upper leg. He was rewarded with an immediate, appreciative groan. _So, touch is mandatory. Check. _Peter ran his right hand along Sylar's calf, fingers slipping through what Sylar thought of as an embarrassing and probably gross amount of hair, to tickle lightly and tantalizingly at the delicate skin on the back of his knee. His left hand stroked himself in slow, deliberate jerks as he blindly explored his partner. Sylar's skin felt alive and tingly where Peter caressed him and it was no longer his imagination supplying the sensation. Sylar's eyes slid nearly shut in bliss as he started to pump his own dick, unconsciously keeping time with Peter.

"Mmm," he hummed in a deep, resonant tone as Peter kneaded the muscle of his calf and started tugging at himself more determinedly, milking himself from the root. But this looked a little too much like Peter was in control of things. Sylar disentangled his leg and raised his foot to Peter's face, pushing it against his cheek and asserting who was in charge. As Sylar pulled back, Peter snapped defiantly at that foot, teeth clacking together on air. Sylar didn't even flinch, protected as he was by Peter being blindfolded. He chuckled. _Feisty_. "You want my foot in your mouth, is that it? That can be arranged, you know."

Peter's right hand had joined his left at his groin - the right stroking at his erect organ and the left fondling his balls. Sylar was so distracted by those mesmerizing motions and the shift in color and shape of the head of Peter's cock, that he nearly missed Peter's quiet, needy whine. He'd opened his mouth invitingly, touching the tip of his tongue to the inside of his upper lip.

_Hm?_ Sylar tipped his long, narrow foot over, worrying about how clean the bottom of his feet were. Despite that, he felt a thrill at the filthiness of Peter touching his lips to Sylar's big toe, and then rubbing his cheek over it. Sylar wormed his toes around to present the largest to Peter's lips again. "Lick my feet," he whispered, surprised at how arousing it was to see Peter debase himself so willingly. "Suck it. Oh, yeah."

Peter pulled the big toe into his mouth, rolling it around like a tootsie-pop. Warmth, wetness, suction, and the brush of teeth did all kinds of good things to Sylar's excitement. He was breathing harder, starting to squeeze and work himself faster. He groaned quietly as Peter pulled off, raking the toe lightly with his incisors. Sylar dropped his foot to the side, noting that Peter missed a stroke and even let go of himself, probably preparatory to finding out where Sylar's foot had gone off to. Sylar snugged it up next to Peter's hip, which seemed to satisfy the other man.

Peter returned to stroking himself right-handed while his left touched himself or Sylar's leg. Peter was starting to make noises in the back of his throat, one with every few breaths. Had they been fucking, Sylar knew those sounds would have been moans - the harder the thrusts, the louder, but it was interesting to see Peter made them even from the pleasures of his own hand. He was breathing faster as his right hand transitioned toward the end of his dick and his left made another journey up his front, stroking his chest, neck and then lips as Peter moved his head restlessly.

He was getting close, and Sylar, his hand on himself still matching Peter's pace, was as well. _I've seen enough_. After this, if the pattern was anything like what Sylar had seen before, it would be a quick finish unless he interrupted. It was time to capitalize on something else he'd learned the first time. "Come here," he said, scooting quickly to the edge of the couch and reaching out long arms to touch Peter on the shoulder. He guided him closer. Peter understood what was wanted almost immediately. Hot, panting breaths puffed along Sylar's thigh as Peter's mouth quested for him. Lips wetted by an active tongue slid over the head of Sylar's cock similar to how he'd taken in his toe. He sucked him ardently, with a wanton, perverted keening like giving Sylar head was just what he'd been waiting for. Sylar grinned, his feet on either side of Peter's ass, bouncing a little, said toes scratching against Peter to spur him on.

It felt fabulous. Peter was a cocksucker of unparalleled skill and even more, now that he was turned on this much, he was wildly enthusiastic. "Mmmm," Peter moaned, swallowing him down almost completely, then pulling back to breathe and lap noisily at the glans. Sylar touched the top of Peter's dark head, ever so grateful for all of this - the eagerness, the cooperativeness, the depth of Peter's heart that he would be willing to be with someone like Sylar, willing to give him a chance, willing to take him to bed, willing to suck his cock on request or demand. Sylar stroked Peter's fine, silky hair, gorgeous to look at and even more fantastic to feel. He tugged off the blindfold to better run his hands through it, grabbing fistfuls as Peter sucked him, bobbing his head rapidly, one hand now on Sylar's shaft while the other was on Peter's own cock.

Sylar made an inarticulate noise of desire, starting to flex his buttocks so as to make small thrusts into Peter's mouth - _so sweet, so hot, so sinful._ _And all mine. He gives me everything. Anything I ask for._ Sylar lifted the blindfold and smelled of it, picking up the scent of Peter's hair and skin faintly on it. He rubbed it against his face as his other hand tightened on Peter's hair, pushing him forward and making him take him deeper. _And he doesn't even complain about that._

Peter's back flexed and his hand on Sylar's shaft clenched. He moaned in the back of his throat, a loud but stifled sound that vibrated Sylar's dick until it felt like he was going to lose it. Peter lifted just enough for a quick breath before doing it again. This time after a few seconds, Peter shook, his mouth went slack, and his grip faltered. Sylar turned Peter's head to glory at the glazed look on his face in those few seconds of orgasm. _Mine! You come from sucking me off, letting me use you. Jesus, Peter! _Peter's lids fluttered and he leaned his head against Sylar's thigh, breathing hard around Sylar's painfully full, nearly-there erection.

Sylar pulled it out and stroked, long, full draws up and down the saliva-slicked organ, looking at Peter's lovely, satiated visage crouched subserviently between his legs. It didn't take long before he felt the fire in his balls, drawing up and priming him. Peter seemed to notice as well, as Sylar's motions became jerky and harder. Peter slipped his mouth back over the end of Sylar's cock and it was like liquid ecstasy - hot, wet, incredible suction hollowing Peter's cheeks with the edges of his teeth slipping against his head. That sent Sylar right over the edge. He came hard, feeling like the whole end of his cock was surging with pleasure. Peter sucked him thoroughly, extending the peak until Sylar curled his hands into the man's hair and whimpered.

"Please, please … stop." Sylar could barely believe those words were coming out of his own mouth. He'd never begged anyone for anything - except for Peter, whom he begged for release and begged for mercy. Peter leaned away, licking his lips and swallowing, looking up at him with a smugly pleased look that somehow made Sylar want to climb in his lap and curl up there. "Oh, Peter," he breathed, blown away in more ways than one.

Peter pushed him over on the couch, taking charge and directing him, and Sylar went meekly because in these rare moments, his whole world was glowing and good. "Scoot back." Peter climbed up with Sylar, bringing the towel from the floor with him. He tossed it over them both and snuggled up close, happy to be crammed together in the limited space. Peter tucked his head to Sylar's chest and rubbed his forehead against him lovingly. Sylar embraced him, breathing slowing, the rush of his blood slowing, feeling utterly transported by the continuing flood of endorphins. It made him high like nothing else. _One little blow job_, he thought._ That's all it takes to send me flying. I'm so fucking easy._


	20. Sweet Surrender

**Title:** Sweet Surrender  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar, Peter  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Explicit sexual content  
><strong>Words:<strong> 1,700  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> PWP. Sylar and Peter, in the Wall, have been making out and getting one another off. Peter finally gets fed up with Sylar's overbearing behavior and does something about it. Sylar finds that far more enjoyable than he expected.

* * *

><p>Sylar devoured Peter's mouth with ferocious energy, wrapping his lips around Peter's, sucking at them, and dragging his teeth across them. He was desperate for more, to draw Peter in as much as he could, taste him, savor him, swallow him down. He was lost in the experience of taking someone … so much so that it was startling when Peter grunted, grabbed his head, and pulled him back. Sylar would have recoiled entirely, but Peter's fingers flexed, tips pressing in and subtly blocking him.<p>

Sylar held still after that, equal parts angry at having his happy time interrupted and frightened that he might have done some unknown thing to irrevocably foul things up. Peter looked over his face silently, then drew him back slowly, lips parting to renew the kiss.

_Whatever_, Sylar thought of the speed bump. _Maybe he just wanted to look at me_. He didn't care. He returned to kissing with abandon, but it lasted only a few seconds before Peter jerked him back, gripping harder and putting Sylar right back where he had been before.

Rage boiled in him at being manhandled. Sylar went still, glaring forcefully and blowing air out his nose in displeasure. He wasn't the only one unhappy. Peter frowned and Sylar would have thought they were about to have a fight, or at least an argument, but that Peter was still holding his head. That gesture made Sylar keep his lips sealed, as well as the certainty that anything he said right now would be the wrong thing. He didn't know what was going on, but that Peter was still holding him, eyes flitting between his own and his lips, told him that he wasn't being rejected. _Maybe … he's playing?_

He breathed out more slowly and evenly, the glower fading as he studied Peter's face only inches from his own. Peter adjusted his hands, thumbs moving over and a little ahead of Sylar's temples, fingers spreading through his hair. It was sensuous, but Sylar understood Peter was getting a better grip to fix his head in place. For the moment, Sylar cooperated. Peter was (or at least had been), after all, letting him make out with him. He'd find out what was going on before fighting about it.

Peter's frown disappeared and he moved forward slowly, leaning up on his toes so as to brush Sylar's lips. It was silent and careful and for a moment Sylar did nothing in direct response. Then he shivered, a mental vision of being confined, strapped down, helpless on Level 5, and yet wonderfully molested by this very same Peter Petrelli flashed behind his eyes. With a lustful sound in the back of his throat, his chin jutted forward and he tried to go back to the zealous manner he'd used before. He was blocked, though. Peter twitched his own head away an inch and held Sylar firm.

Anger blazed in Sylar's eyes for a moment, then it subsided with a small smile. _He's playing; playing at controlling me._ That made him laugh inside, but he allowed Peter his pretenses. _Whatever gets you off, Peter._ The other man came back in, gentle and slow, lips moving softly over Sylar's. Sylar relaxed his mouth, letting it fall open a little, letting his lips loosen, and letting his neck unwind from the stiffness it had adopted.

"Scoot down a little," Peter murmured, and Sylar bent his knees a little in response, bracing against the wall behind him. Peter kissed his lower lip and then his upper in small, sucking smooches that included a delicious swipe by his tongue. Sylar made another sound of need, but this time didn't act on it. Peter paused as if considering that, then tilted his head to the side and kissed softly, full mouth on mouth. Sylar's hands crept up Peter's back as though of their own volition. Holding still and not responding with his mouth was setting the rest of his body on fire, desperate to take what was right in front of him.

Peter's tongue touched his, prodding it lightly, and Sylar shivered with the sensation. He kissed back, unable to resist, but he kept his motions small, and not the rampant vigor he'd been using before. Peter moaned in encouragement and pressed his body to Sylar's. His hands combed through Sylar's hair to the back of his head, where one cradled his skull and the other drifted down to his neck, stroking so softly as to tickle. Sylar shuddered again, eyes feeling like they were going to roll back in his head from pleasure.

He wasn't sure what Peter was doing - playing, controlling, teasing? - but it was totally working for Sylar, more intensely even than it would have been if he'd still been going to town, eating Peter's face like he'd been doing earlier. He kept having these erotically-charged imaginings of restraints and being sexed against his will … or sort of against his will. It was Peter, after all. Peter controlling him … him _letting_ Peter control him. The idea that he could _trust_ Peter enough to give up control to him … it was making him ache in his pants, making his heart hammer faster and faster against his chest. He was glad of the wall at his back, because his knees were growing weak from the fantasy running non-stop now in his head. Peter's lips gave it reality as they trekked across his cheek to suck at his earlobe. Peter's attentions blended seamlessly into the mental illusion. Sylar's fingers dug into Peter's back, over his shoulder blades, as Peter turned Sylar's head to get better access to ear and throat.

Sylar imagined being tied down, helpless, vulnerable, unable to escape … it would be a game he'd set up with Peter, explained and planned beforehand, but staged or not, he'd still be utterly powerless when the moment came. Unable to strike back; unable to get away. In his fantasy, Peter would treat him so tenderly, with such unfailing trust and support, warmth and love. He'd still have passion, just as Sylar could now feel Peter starting to rock their erections together, through the strained denim separating them. But it wouldn't be the frantic, desperate pace Sylar had set so far in their dalliances. It was be deliberate, calm, going only as fast as Peter wanted it to, and Sylar would be forced to progress at someone else's pace. Yet despite the surrender of control, Peter would still _progress_. He wanted Sylar; he truly did. Sylar wouldn't be denied. He'd get what he needed - without having to take, without having to force.

He shuddered again, drowning in arousal and barely restrained desire as Peter turned his head back and kissed his mouth. Sylar, totally into the headspace, passively and gratefully accepted the kiss with a mewl of pleasure. Peter smirked. The hand that had been on the side of Sylar's neck drifted down his chest, pausing to brush back and forth across his shirt, finding the hardened nubs and tweaking them - one, then the other. Sylar's breath panted out and his lids fluttered. He gave himself over to Peter to toy with, feeling the hand go lower as Peter leaned in for another leisurely kiss, sliding his tongue within Sylar's welcoming mouth. Sylar groaned as Peter's hand brushed down the bulging front of his jeans, then unbuttoned and opened them. Another kiss was provided as Peter's fingers teased along the outline Sylar made in his underwear, a wet patch besmirching the front.

Peter pushed the white cotton cloth down, took him in hand, and started to pump. Sylar whimpered, eyes shut, fingers digging into Peter's shoulders. Peter nuzzled his face, rubbing the tip of his nose against Sylar's, and against his cheek. Sylar had completely given up initiative. He shook like a leaf, already on the edge of release. He'd surrendered completely, giving himself to Peter on a silver platter, letting Peter drive. He came so quickly it was embarrassing - a few handfuls of strokes and he gushed with a spasm and a cry. Peter kissed him again, drinking in the noise he'd made, then sucking on his lower lip, and his upper, just like how he'd started.

Sylar looked at him with glazed eyes, feeling twitchy and frightened, worried that Peter knew (or didn't know) how vulnerable he'd let himself be, and how solidly the whole thing had rocked his boat. If Peter didn't know, then did Sylar need to pretend that his unusual excitement had been on purpose? And if Peter did … what did it mean to be that safe with someone? It was boggling. Sylar had no frame of reference. Peter put Sylar's clothes somewhat to rights and snuggled against him, nudging Sylar into standing taller once more. Sylar was still too mentally staggered to do anything but loosely hold his companion, aware of the regular motions Peter's arm and hips were making, slowly intensifying until Peter groaned into Sylar's collar, at a spot already sloppy wet from Peter drooling and kissing on him while he'd jerked himself off.

They stood together, all quiet breathing, warm bodies, and cooling damp spots. Finally, Sylar's recovering thoughts hit upon a possible way to spin this. "Peter Petrelli. I think you get off on controlling me."

Peter glanced up at him and raised one brow. "You're a pretty scary guy, Sylar," he said, neither confirming nor denying, which Sylar took as an unconditional affirmation.

_What a funny little man, who can admit that he's scared of me, but not that he'd rather be in charge._ Licking his lips slowly, Sylar looked off into the distance and smiled, giving Peter a squeeze. "I think we can work something out."


	21. Playing Hard to Get

**Title:** Playing Hard to Get  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar, Peter  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Explicit sexual content  
><strong>Words:<strong> 2,700  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> PWP. Sylar's upset that no one is willing to put up with someone as screwed in the head as he is. Peter proves him wrong. Beta by means2bhuman.

* * *

><p>Sylar just wanted someone to be there for him. He knew he was a complete fuck up, with so few redeeming features as to be not worth saving. The whole world would be better off with him out of it, which was agonizingly ironic because Sylar didn't want the whole world. One part of it would do. Any part. One person, even. And they didn't have to be <em>his<em> - they just had to think he was okay under the layers of fucked-upedness that he knew he had and that he would gladly start trying to peel away … if he just had someone who cared that he was trying.

He'd been slapped in the face, again, by how unlikely it was that he'd ever get what he'd wanted. Peter's scathing comments reminded him of how unworthy he was of anyone's support. He sat on the bench in the park where they'd been arguing, letting his shoulders sag as he put his face in his hands. He'd gradually become more open with Peter in showing his emotions, because really - why not? There was no one else here. The stoic façade didn't protect him from shit. And maybe … fine, let Peter have what he wanted. Let him see that his words had struck home. Let him gloat or whatever it was he wanted to do. At least one of them would be happy.

Sylar's throat felt swollen and constricted. His too-large nose wasn't helping matters by being stuffy all of a sudden. He sniffed, determined to keep breathing even though his body seemed equally stubborn about complicating the simple process. A moment later, Peter sat down on the park bench next to him. Too close, but Peter and boundaries weren't always on speaking terms. Sylar tensed and turned his head away, expecting more of the same diatribe, just at closer range. Instead, Peter put his arm around Sylar's shoulders and squeezed.

"I'm sorry," Peter said gently. "I went too far. I shouldn't have said that."

Sylar turned towards him slowly, eyeing Peter sullenly, expecting to see some sneering, laughing 'Psych! Just kidding!' joke about to spill forth. What he saw was remorse and sympathy.

Peter turned inward with him, using and encouraging the rotation of Sylar's torso. He tightened his arm around Sylar's back, pulling them together until their chests touched. Sylar knew what a hug was, but to be given one right now was so jarring that his mind initially only processed Peter's act in terms of mechanics - each muscle contraction and physical contact registering separately as his mind fumbled on the identity of the gestalt. _Whoa. He's … what is he doing? Why?_

He started breathing harder, a flush of emotion - gratitude, his mind distantly catalogued - rushing through him from scalp to soles, leaving him warm and tingling. He could have questioned. He could have pushed Peter away and counter-attacked, rallying new energy to defend himself. Instead, he tucked his face against Peter's neck and let his arms creep up around the other man. His hands drifted up over sides that he knew were muscled and ribbed under Peter's shirt, over a back he knew to be both strong and broad. It felt good; it felt welcomed. He felt the silent tears that were wetting Peter's neck, the idea that Peter was apologizing letting Sylar feel safe enough to let go at least a little bit. Maybe he could put down some tiny fraction of the crap piled on him by his shitty life.

Peter stroked his back, patted him quietly and consistently. It had a comforting rhythm to it that reminded Sylar of a magazine article he'd read in an ophthalmologist's waiting room years ago. It was something about there being a distinct pattern of patting that mothers gave to infants that soothed more than any other. It was the same that people gave instinctively in the much rarer instances when they were genuinely trying to comfort another adult. He held to Peter tighter, letting go inside - relaxing and giving up on it all.

It seemed like forever that Peter held him patiently, no hurrying, no rushing, no telling him to man up or get over it. He felt better as his crying jag passed, perversely delighted in fact. Playful, happy - feelings Sylar had been unfamiliar with for so long that they seemed like strange, anomalous conditions. He sniffed repeatedly, clearing his nose and regaining his ability to smell. Besides the salt tang of his weeping, he could smell the man he was embracing. His cock twitched. Sylar pressed the ridge of his nose to the soft flesh of Peter's throat, feeling the man's pulse throbbing so sensuously underneath, and inhaled deeply.

_Oh, God. That scent!_ He'd never had the opportunity to get this close to Peter, much less perv on him like this. _Maybe I ought to have emotional breakdowns more often_. He breathed in again. Knowing he might never get a chance to do this again, knowing full well he might be ruining the most empathetic gesture Peter had ever made to him, he still didn't stop himself as the tip of his tongue darted out and licked. Peter was salty and wet; tears and sweat. It was an intoxicating combination for Sylar, especially at that moment. _I am such a fuck up._ But Peter hadn't jerked away, though he had stilled. Sylar tasted again, fully expecting for this to go bad, fast, but it was worth it. He was getting off on this.

Peter pulled aside and pushed him back a little without any of the urgency that would have been normal for someone you hated licking on you inappropriately. It occurred to Sylar that maybe Peter wasn't sure what he'd been doing there. Peter certainly looked perplexed at the moment. Sylar would clear that up - Peter had shown him sympathy; Sylar was, well, pathologically unable to keep himself from see-sawing way too far in the opposite direction. He kissed Peter in a smooth, natural motion, as though he'd done it dozens of times before instead of never.

_Now_ Peter jerked away, shoving him back and holding him stiff-armed. "No!" he barked out, looking alarmed.

_You started it,_ Sylar thought in sick amusement. And oh yeah, he had quite the boner going on. Hugging, smelling, kissing, patting, stroking, tasting - what did Peter expect? He was an idiot if he didn't think that would push Sylar's buttons so firmly that some of them would stick in that position. Sylar patiently pried Peter's hands off him, which Peter allowed, but Peter freaked out and scuttled backwards on the bench when Sylar came in for kiss number two.

Peter's retreat translated to 'play a game', 'teasing', and 'the hunt' in Sylar's twisted brain. _Tag, you're it! _He grinned and jumped forward after him. Peter leaped to his feet; Sylar followed, prowling closer to him and looking for his opportunity to grab Peter and pull him back close.

"Sylar?"

Sylar chuckled. Their stupid argument was long over with, flushed out of his memory with the emotional release. Peter's body heat still lingered on his chest and arms and face; the taste of him on his tongue - those things had made so much more of an impression. _So delicious._ His grin was all teeth, his mouth gaping a little in glee. Sylar lunged in too close and Peter smacked him on the cheek. It was half-hearted at best and a far cry from the solid, head-snapping punch Sylar knew Peter could throw. _He's playing with me?_

It was so rare for anyone Sylar toyed with to play back in return. Actually … he couldn't remember it ever happening. At all. But Peter was novel and special in so many delightful ways. Sylar sprang forward again, expecting and dodging Peter's jab, to snake in a long-armed slap of his own. It popped against the side of Peter's face with satisfying loudness. Like Peter's blow, there was little force to it except for shock value.

Peter snarled and tried to slap him back. For a moment, they fought like a pair of teenage kids in an undignified slap-fest, blocking and dodging and whapping on each other. Glancing blows, all, but Sylar's heart was racing, pumping hard and pushing blood where it needed to be. He felt heavy and full in his groin, excited in many different ways. His ecstatic grin showed it.

Peter gave up the fight (it was probably the grin that put him off) and tried to back out of it. As he retreated, his heel connected with the edge of a planting box and he stumbled, glancing back and trying to change course. Sylar grabbed Peter's shirt and jerked him close, pulling Peter flush with him from head to toe. Sylar was breathing right in his face, feeling his erection pressed into Peter's abdomen. Peter's eyes flew wide. Before he could recover, Sylar kissed him sloppily on the forehead. It was handy - right there in front of his lips. He puckered firmly, hoping that Peter wouldn't head-butt him too hard for this.

Yet Peter didn't counter-attack. He yanked back, throwing his weight away from Sylar, who still had a hold of his shirt. Also, there was still the edge of the planter box to take into account, which tripped Peter up just as surely the second time as the first. Off-balance, they both went down into soft earth and begonias.

_He just pulled me down on top of him!_ Sylar's mind supplied in an overjoyed crow. Even though he knew that was mostly accident, he couldn't help but be thrilled about the serendipitous arrangement. _Onto a bed even! Flower bed, but whatever._

Their fighting turned to wrestling, with Sylar's sole goal being to writhe and wriggle on top of Peter as much as possible, humping on him when he could. Peter struggled with him and it was really starting to seem to Sylar that Peter wasn't fighting this as hard as he _could_. Yeah, Sylar had noticed that before with the flimsy whack instead of a solid punch, but Peter had opportunities even now to knee Sylar in the groin, head butt him, gouge his eyes, punch his throat, or any of a number of fight-ending moves that Peter was … not taking.

Peter was certainly objecting verbally, though: "Would you stop it!" "Sylar!" "Fuck!" "Ow!" "Damnit!" "Quit it!"

And that was when Sylar felt it: he wasn't the only one turned on here. Grabbing Peter by the shoulder with one hand, he put his other to Peter's crotch. Peter froze, hands on his collar and the bicep of the arm now occupied with Peter's groin. That arm rubbed hard and steady, up and down in forceful strokes that made Peter shudder every-fucking-time. This close, Sylar could see as Peter's already dark eyes got darker and lost focus. His breath hitched in beautiful time with Sylar pumping him. Peter flushed and panted, hard as steel under Sylar's palm.

It seemed like forever - a long, crystalline moment where nothing happened except for Sylar making Peter twitch intimately with every pass of his hand. Then Peter shattered it by coming to his senses. He kicked Sylar on the thigh, shoved him away, and rolled, ending up on hands and knees off to the side. It wasn't too hard to get away. Sylar had been thoroughly distracted and felt like he was about to pop off himself just from watching Peter respond. But he wasn't done yet.

They both got to their feet together, with Sylar moving in immediately to finish the job. Peter swung on him and this time, he wasn't playing. He hit Sylar hard, right in the face, causing an actual undignified yelp of unexpected pain. Sylar recoiled, glanced at Peter (saw that there was no follow-through attack coming - something one had to be careful about with Peter) and stooped over, holding his nose and playing up the injury with a low noise.

A few seconds passed as the air sounded with the heavy breathing between both of them. "Ow," Sylar moaned, straightening a little and grimacing. He was starting to think Peter wouldn't fall for his ruse, but here he came, the little Boy Scout, stepping right up to him and beginning to say something about letting him look at Sylar's hurt.

Well, it wasn't hurt _that_ bad. Sylar tumbled Peter back into the same planter they'd been in before. Sylar was gratified to find Peter was still packing heat in his drawers. The fight hadn't taken that out of him. Feeling safer, Sylar grabbed Peter's jaw in one long-fingered grip and kissed him, open-mouthed, while he rutted against Peter hard enough to grind him into the dirt. Peter had every excuse to bite him on the tongue - bite it off, even. Sylar took that risk and played a bet. Like so many seemingly suicidal dangers Sylar had exposed himself to over the years, this one paid off. Peter kissed back, madly and passionately, fingers gripping Sylar's arms and digging in - but not pushing him away. A long minute of surprisingly mutual coupling later, Peter shuddered, gasping around Sylar's mouth. For a brief moment, Sylar thought he'd broken his toy. But no. Peter's fluttering lids and vacant expression spoke of something else. With a last, violent snap of his hips, Sylar joined him in release, laughing from euphoria and victory as soon as his voice started working.

He laughed harder when he saw Peter's face. It looked like the empath was trying to have a half-dozen emotions parade across there at once. _Poor guy_, Sylar thought with amusement. _I'm too much for him. I'm a freak. Someone shows me a moment of kindness, and I have to fuck it up in the most royal and complete way I can._ His laugh turned bitter, hopeless, and sad, as Peter shoved him away with an enraged snarl, then rose to stand over him. Sylar curled inward to protect himself from the expected boot party, still wracked with highly inappropriate, hysterical giggles._ I always knew I might get killed for fucking __**with**__ someone, but I never thought I'd be killed for fucking __**on**__ them._

A few seconds passed as his mirth wound down and the serious regrets, fear, and self-loathing took over. Peter went to one knee next to him, apparently having elected not to exact revenge with his feet. Fists were so much more personal, after all. Sylar cringed and winced when Peter grabbed the front of his shirt. He wanted to take his beating like a man, but he just couldn't. Pain was pain, no matter how much of a psychopath he was. Peter stared at him for a moment, long enough for Sylar's eyes to creep cautiously to Peter's face. Peter looked put-out and exasperated, not angry.

Peter leaned in fast, pulling Sylar towards him, tilting his head and kissing him with a hard, quick, but unmistakable smooch before shoving Sylar all the way back to the ground. Peter huffed. "This is a one-time pass. Next time I say no, you _respect_ it. You hear me?"

"Yes," Sylar said immediately in a small, wondering voice. His fingers traveled to his lips, touching them disbelievingly. _He kissed me? There's going to be a next time? _His eyes widened_. There's going to be a next time!_

"Good." Peter stood and started to walk off. He threw his voice over his shoulder, calling out, "I'm going to go get cleaned up. See you tomorrow," like it was no big deal.

Sylar watched the man walk away for a good minute, noticing Peter's stride actually looked … jaunty. He rolled over, finding a stupid grin on his face as unasked for as the sorrow that had marked it before any of this had started. Sylar put his hands over his face again, thinking that maybe he'd found someone crazy enough to put up with his fucked-upedness after all.


	22. No Retaliation

**Title: **No Retaliation  
><strong>Characters: <strong>Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Rating: <strong>NC-17  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Violent sex, coercion during sex, possible dub-con. Peter gets really dark.  
><strong>Word count: <strong>7,000  
><strong>Setting: <strong>The Wall.  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Peter tries to resist Sylar's advances, but his own darkest desires betray him.  
><strong>Notes: <strong>Beta by means2bhuman. Set a few days after a fist fight between the two of them, but that's immaterial to the story itself. Also, they usually eat breakfast together.

Another rejection of Sylar's advances was delivered; the man in question tried to kill Peter with his eyes.

Peter weathered Sylar's angry glare, answering with a slow, unimpressed blink and looking away. The other man kept looking at him anyway - he could see that in his peripheral vision, as well as when Sylar finally stood. Peter glanced back and started to rise as well, only to be told, "Stay," like he was a dog or something. Huffing a bit, Peter obeyed, assuming Sylar was going to get something out of the fridge and was just telling Peter, rather rudely, that there was no reason to get up, from where he was sitting in the kitchen of Sylar's apartment.

But Sylar stopped behind him, directly behind him, and put his hand on Peter's shoulder. Peter glanced up and back, not sure what was coming. He tensed all over, seeing that Sylar had something small and black in his hand. A moment later, its identity as a comb was clear but that didn't really lead to Peter relaxing. _What the hell?_

"Hold still," Sylar snapped, the hand on Peter's shoulder holding him firmly in his seat.

"What are you doing?"

"Improving the scenery." And with that, Sylar began to touch the comb to Peter's hair - gingerly at first, with just the teeth of it touching against the out of place locks.

Peter frowned, caught by indecision. He didn't want Sylar touching him like this - he'd given no permission (it hadn't been asked), it was overly intimate, and it made Peter feel like a child. On the other hand, he'd turned Sylar down _again_, and he knew that had to hurt. This was Sylar's revenge? If he thwarted it, Sylar, like anyone with an ego, would just find another way to stand up for himself. This wasn't painful … just a bit embarrassing. It wasn't like there was anyone here to see it. Peter faced away and sat quietly, allowing Sylar to have his way.

It wasn't bad. Sylar moved very slowly, making multiple passes, each a little deeper than before, until the comb was lightly scraping against Peter's scalp. There was something awkward and odd about the motions, as if Sylar had never combed anyone's hair other than his own. Peter wasn't exactly that experienced at it either, but the various barbers and hair stylists he'd been to had always handled him much more familiarly. Peter had always enjoyed getting his hair done by a professional. It was nice now, even with the less practiced touch.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, letting the tension drain away. Sylar shifted from combing sections and started doing long strokes from the hairline over Peter's forehead to the nape of his neck. They were slow, careful, dragging motions. Peter took another deep breath, easing up. _This feels really good. It's not so bad. A lot better than other ways he could resolve the fight. Or react to it. He could have yelled, or snarked, or told me to leave, or whatever. Yeah, this is nice._

Sylar's hand lifted off his shoulder and a moment later, Peter felt it displacing the hairs over his temple with tiny, furtive motions. The combing fast became repetitive as Sylar split his attention, obviously putting most of it on his free hand. _He's petting me,_ Peter thought. _What do I do about that? I could tell him to quit - another rejection, that I won't even let him touch me. Is this so bad, though? I'm here in his apartment trying to help him. This isn't sexual. At least, not unless he starts humping me through the back of the chair. Is it bad that he's touching my hair? It feels good. This doesn't have to be a big deal. It's okay … right?_

Peter breathed out slowly and leaned back in his seat. Sylar took that as acceptance and started touching him more freely, stroking his hair, threading his fingers through it, carding it back, and playing with Peter's bangs. He mussed it, then combed it flat. He skimmed the rim of Peter's ear, provoking Peter to twitch his head away. Sylar waited a beat, then touched that ear again, this time deliberately, sliding his index finger more firmly around the top of the cartilage shell. Peter shifted to the side in his seat, jerking his head away with a huff. "Hey! Stop it!"

Sylar's free hand was back on Peter's shoulder with lightspeed. The pace of the combing sped up, but neither of these actions helped. Peter felt annoyed and irritable. He shook his head in a twisting motion. "That's enough."

"Let me finish." There was a faint undertone of pleading to Sylar's voice, but Peter was unmoved by it.

He shifted his head to the other side now, avoiding Sylar's attentions. "You finished a long time ago. All you're doing now is perving on me. Quit it."

"You liked it," Sylar accused with an edge of smugness as he walked back to his seat. He tugged a couple captured strands of Peter's hair from the teeth of the comb, and raised them to his lips with a leer. Sylar brushed them across his lips and inhaled.

Peter sighed, but otherwise ignored the display. "Yeah, I did," Peter said, voice softening. He looked away and changed the subject. "How's your headache today?" After a long pause, Sylar accepted that, and they spoke of the hair thing not at all for the rest of the day.

The next morning, though, Sylar took out his comb and laid it on the table next to his plate. He looked up at Peter from under lowered brows. It was a challenge, calling Peter out to say something about it. Peter met Sylar's intense stare for a long beat, enough to establish he wasn't intimidated, then looked down at his food. "You ever had cinnamon toast?" Peter asked, deciding to explore other breakfast options rather than discuss the looming threat that Sylar was going to brush Peter's hair. _Let him win this one. He wants it. It hardly matters. Of all the things he wants to fight over, that's it? I can deal with that._

Sylar let the conversation go where it would as they ate. Always before, Peter had finished first, but Sylar had a mission. He ate fast, scraping his plate clean in (for him) record time. His hand settled on the comb and he checked Peter for reaction again. Peter met the man's eyes much more briefly this time, and looked away more definitively. He felt weird about it, glancing back to see Sylar assuming an expression of a man gathering his courage, before Sylar rose and walked behind him. Peter sat up straight in his chair and leaned back.

Peter had a lot of thoughts while Sylar played with his hair. Primary among them was the morality of this. He couldn't find where it was wrong, though it _felt_ wrong. It felt wrong because Peter enjoyed it; it felt wrong because he was sure Sylar enjoyed it. But what was wrong with enjoying something together? He couldn't consider it sexual; it wasn't inappropriate - a bit weird, yes, but helping groom and care for people was something Peter had done himself without qualm.

Sylar said not a word while he did it, nor did he touch Peter's ears. His hair got a thorough tousling, which continued until Peter's temper finally turned and he'd had enough. He pulled his head away and said quietly, and only needed to say once, "You're done." Sylar stroked the back of Peter's neck once as he walked away, and he remained in a markedly better than normal humor all day long.

After that, it became the normal way the morning went - they'd eat, then Sylar would get his fifteen minutes of petting Peter on the head, followed by Sylar being pleased the rest of the day. It frustrated Peter, at himself, at how quickly and how much he started to look forward to that time. And he was envious of what a kick Sylar clearly got out of it. As the days ticked by, he found himself getting irritable where it had initially been soothing. He still looked forward to it, but he was excited by it, and agitated. The attention, the handling, that private moment of intimacy that he forbade any other manifestation - it had infected him. He'd let it slip past his defenses and now he was desperate to respond rather than just passively receive. He wanted to do so much more than just brush hair in return. He wanted to do things he refused to even think about, or admit to himself, which left him tense and wanting.

But then one morning, while heading to the fridge for more juice, he hit on what he could do.

XXX

Peter expected a jump or at least a twitch when his hands came down on either of Sylar's shoulders. There was no response whatsoever. Not that Sylar continued moving - he didn't; he just sat there perfectly still. If it had happened to Peter, he would have said something, he would have moved, he would have looked back; he would have _reacted_. Sylar's reaction was the non-reaction, a negative image, where he stopped acting and sat in tense passivity, like Peter had hit the pause button on the man.

That wasn't what Peter had had in mind. He wanted to make Sylar happy. He wanted to get the same sort of hands-on contact Sylar got to do with Peter when he combed his hair, but Peter had heretofore been unable to justify to himself doing it in return. But now he'd hit on a way for it to make sense to himself, in a way that wasn't wrong or immoral or a betrayal. Massage therapists, chiropractors, and physical therapists weren't doing anything wrong to touch their clients like this. Peter was trained as a nurse and paramedic - the therapeutic impact of positive touch was huge. He'd managed to talk himself into the idea that this was a medical service. Not, you know, Peter caressing Sylar's body without permission or warning.

He began to rub, very gently at first, using the same pressure with each hand. Sylar's muscles were hard and stiff, like he was poised. Unhappy about that, Peter smoothed his hands to either side, stroking the top of Sylar's shoulders and the deltoid. He recalled his own jumpy complaints and initial resistance to Sylar's touch. He assumed Sylar would relax if he kept at it and demonstrated that this was just a shoulder rub - no big deal, nothing to freak out about.

He rubbed lightly, alternating with stroking and petting. "Relax. I'm not going to hurt you," he murmured, dipping his head because he was starting to feel acutely embarrassed and unwelcome at this. Sylar's continued frozen act was putting Peter off. He breathed in, smelling Sylar - the faint, clean odor of masculinity and shampoo, fresh from the morning's shower, wafting up from the man's scalp. People had this bubble around them, a range of a couple inches within which Peter, whose nose wasn't the best, but it wasn't non-functional by any means, could pick up people's scents. It was something of a cue to him, not just a 'you're really freaking close to someone' cue (which it was), but also a cue that if he'd gotten this close without a definitively nonsexual context, that he was cleared for takeoff. He felt the most delightful tingling fireworks going off in his gut.

This was about where Peter's hindbrain started having a lot of say in the goings-on.

He inhaled another breath, making a small sound in the back of his throat and swallowing. His hands enfolded the superior edge of the trapezius muscles, thumbs lining up along the spine and burying themselves in the delicate, downy hair at the nape of Sylar's neck. He gripped more firmly, massaging with knowledgeable, sensitive hands. "Relax," he said again, this time a whisper, more intimate than it should have been, but still loud in the quiet of the kitchen. He could feel that Sylar was slightly less tense, which was probably an involuntary response to the manipulation. Or he was just getting tired, which gave Peter an idea.

"Okay, listen. I want you to do something for me." Peter stopped rubbing, but left his hands resting lightly on Sylar's shoulders. He liked the simple feeling of the warmth of the man's skin a lot more than he'd expected. "I want you to tense up your neck and your shoulders as much as possible. Got it?"

He would have thought Sylar was deaf if it weren't for the shift he felt under his hands. He was obeyed, if not answered. Sylar's frame hardened, muscles like corded cable under his skin. Peter couldn't help running his fingers along the man's neck and the top of his back, feeling the difference. Gooseflesh rose on Sylar's skin, and his breathing became audible as Sylar dropped his mouth open slightly.

"Keep it up until it starts to burn. Tight as you can. It shouldn't take long. Keep it clenched up."

"Why?" Finally, Sylar had spoken.

"I don't think you know how to relax. I'm going to show you how. Is it hurting yet?"

Sylar was silent, and Peter felt the most bizarre urge to give the guy a kiss on the back of the neck just to get a reaction. He moved his thumb in a small circle over the bulge of a vertebra at the base of Sylar's neck. When he thought he detected a slight tremor of muscle strain, he said, "Now stop. Relax. Let it go."

Sylar exhaled in a huff, then drew in a deeper breath and let it out, too. The muscles slackened and eased; they were softer and rolled under his hands more easily. Peter leaned down, putting his lips closer to Sylar's ear as he started to lightly massage. "Feel that? Isn't that better? Let the tension go. Let it out. Just relax." He smoothed his hands out to either side. "Let's do it again, just not for as long. Okay?"

"You're … trying to get me relaxed?" Sylar asked uncertainly.

"Yeah," Peter said, straightening. He gave Sylar's deltoid a slight pinch. "Tighten up here. We'll do it again."

He saw the muscles tighten up, and a minute later, on command, release. "Do you feel that?" Peter asked, insistent about getting feedback here. "Do you feel how different it feels when you relax?"

Sylar's back was sagging a little and the set of his head was different. That was what Peter was going for. "Yes," Sylar answered quietly. "It feels better."

"Yeah, I'll bet. You carry around so much tension."

Sylar made a small grunt. Peter chose to interpret it as affirmation. He went back to kneading Sylar's shoulders, who now had enough flex in his frame that Peter could shift Sylar's whole upper body a little with each palpation. It was gratifying that the guy was loosening up. "You gotta learn to relax, man. Just let it go. Be present in the moment."

"Oh," Sylar purred in a deep, resonant tone, "I am _completely_ present."

Peter chuckled in amusement at that. It didn't hurt that it was sexy, and Sylar speaking in that tone of voice gave him a thrill. His right hand darted forward to give Sylar a lingering pat on the side of the neck. The skin there had a different texture – thinner and more sensitive than the back of his neck; hot, with the same faint oil as his face. Peter liked it. Even more, he adored how Sylar immediately tilted his head back and to the side, baring the part Peter had touched in a wordless plea to have it repeated. Peter saw that and didn't think enough about what he was doing. He moved his hands to either side of Sylar's neck, fingertips finding his sternomastoids and rubbing small circles.

Sylar slowly tipped his head backward until it bumped against Peter's stomach. He looked up with a wide-eyed, worshipful expression, as if blown away by what was happening. Peter smiled down at him, letting himself get lost in those beautiful, rich brown eyes – so clear, so deep, so expressive. He had lovely lashes, startling whites, and flawless skin, all framed by those impressively solid and dark brows. There was nothing menacing about them at the moment as he stared up, looking utterly vulnerable and open. Peter's breath started coming faster and shallower. His fingers, running partly on autopilot, brushed up and down Sylar's neck, drifting over to his throat. Sylar gave a few slow, languid blinks, sighing in complete submission to whatever Peter wanted to do. Peter could feel the slightest vibration of a hum, purr, or some other vocalization too faint for him to hear.

And Peter was _gone_, adrift in a sea where the only anchor was Sylar's face – attention that was wholly and completely on Peter, like there was nothing else in existence for Sylar. It made Peter feel important, appreciated, and respected. That was so blinding Peter could hardly think. He was responding in other ways as well – heart pumping faster as rambunctious butterflies fluttered in his gut, turning Peter's smile goofy and infatuated, which only seemed to intensify Sylar's expression. Sylar rolled his head back and forth very subtly, the smallest motion against Peter's stomach.

Peter was mesmerized, his fingers tracing the strong line of Sylar's jaw, thumbs straying just slightly onto the man's freshly shaven cheeks. Their texture was silky and smooth – a rare thing for Sylar, but it was only breakfast. The scent of his aftershave stirred from his skin as a slight flush colored it. Peter's hands moved to cup Sylar's jaw, thumbs rubbing into the masseter muscle.

"That feels good?" Peter asked faintly.

"Wonderful," Sylar crooned, and Peter smiled, blushing. He shifted his weight and licked his lips, watching the small motions Sylar's lips made from the movements of Peter's hands. Truly the man felt boneless with relaxation at the moment, head lolling against Peter's stomach. Peter moved his hands towards Sylar's chin, manipulating it slowly with the spontaneous goal of moving Sylar's mouth, watching it part and close, asymmetrically and at his touch. Sylar had such a generous mouth, plush lips for a man without being disproportionate or unattractive. To the contrary, they were perfect. Peter wondered what they would feel like pressed against his own, or trailing across his cheek, or nibbling down his throat, suckling at his nipple, dragging across his belly … wrapped around his cock. Peter made a tiny groan of want, feeling tight in his pants.

Lips. They were beautiful lips. Just like Sylar's eyes – his two most perfect physical traits, both set on a face so handsome it could arrest the breath and send the heart aflutter. Peter's thumb strayed across the lower corner. The lip was soft and smooth, just like it looked, and Sylar's mouth opened wider, breath tickling out as his brows turned up to look both needy and desirous. God, that expression! Peter's mind was helpfully presenting him with ways to meet those desires and he'd lost himself so fucking badly that his mind floundered, struggling to remember why dragging Sylar back to his bed and screwing his brains out was off the menu. Faced with such a perfect, willing creature, what sane person would have ever decided _that_?

Peter found the answer, a freezing cold jolt running through him as he realized that a simple neck rub had somehow escalated into him cradling Sylar's face, caressing the man's plump lower lip while running porn scenarios through his brain to pick the one he most wanted to enact. "A … uhhh …" he said, paling fast as fear and alarm painted themselves on his face.

Sylar's expression shifted, too, no longer the invitation to sin it had been before. "Peter?" he asked with trepidation. The weight of his head lifted off Peter's stomach.

"I … I … I can't. No. I'm sorry," Peter stammered out, letting go and backing away. He still had a hard-on, even if it was fading about as fast as it could from its previously rampantly erect state.

Sylar sat up and turned to face him, looking like a man desperate for water, but unable to keep it from slipping through his fingers. "Peter!"

Peter's thoughts were a clamoring welter of mental noise – remembering the feel of Sylar's skin, the carnal intentions Peter had had, Nathan's death, someone's hot blood on his hands, fire, ice, the rush of air … things less distinct and a mess of urges and emotions, like the whole of his empathy turning on at once. He stumbled to the door and escaped.

XXX

Peter looked up guardedly from where he was resolutely pumping weights. He'd been at it for hours since the issue that morning. Sylar had a paper sack with him, top rolled up. He set it on the bench near the door. "Brought sandwiches," he offered simply.

Peter made a half-nod-like gesture at him and went back to work, hunching in a little on himself. He was embarrassed and still a bit freaked out. Sylar had made his intentions and desires crystal clear some time back, but Peter couldn't claim Sylar had seduced him here. His own lusts had done him in. And now, instead of the firm, no-nonsense, defensible position that he wasn't interested … well, Peter had pretty much blown that right out of the water. The degree to which he'd _wanted_ had surprised even Peter, something that he was still turning over in his mind.

Sylar came closer, leaning against the exercise bike across from Peter. He rolled his shoulders and his neck in an exaggerated motion. "I've been trying those exercises you suggested this morning. You know, learning to relax. I thought maybe you'd like to check."

Peter colored profusely and mumbled, "No, I'm sure you're doing fine."

"There's nothing like a hands-on approach, Peter. You know that."

Peter said nothing and moved his feet uneasily, continuing his bicep reps, watching the floor between Sylar's feet.

Long seconds passed before Sylar said, his voice edged by pleading, "Peter, there's no one else here. No one will judge you. No one will _know_."

Peter shook his head, still staring at the floor.

"It's just you and me."

Peter frowned. Lack of better options was not a reason why he wanted to be with someone. Though he had to admit, as the days and weeks and months had crept by, he had become desperate for more than he had.

Seconds dragged by in noticeable silence. He could hear Sylar's breathing, sharp and distressed. It said a lot about how genuine he was, which made Peter feel like an incredible cad. "I won't hurt you," Sylar added desperately, grasping at straws for what to offer.

Unknowingly, the killer had hit on something that was a big concern for Peter. Peter's eyes snapped up to Sylar's, pinning him so forcefully that Sylar looked frightened for a moment, before he managed to tuck that expression behind a veil of momentary blankness. Sylar could tell he'd stumbled on something and continued, "I won't. You'll be safe. You can do whatever you want. I won't do anything to you. No revenge. Nothing."

"Sylar …" Peter held up his hand to stop the guy, putting down the weight with the other. He sighed, and rubbed slowly at his face. The futility of his abstinence assaulted his senses and not for the first time. Time had worn down his other objections - for the past couple weeks, he'd let himself be combed and caressed by the guy every morning and he was pretty sure Sylar jerked off after breakfast each time. There just didn't seem to be any point to fighting about it and if he was going to be safe … "Okay."

"'Okay' what?"

"'Okay' we'll …" Peter didn't know how to say it. He wasn't even sure what he was offering. His available brainpower was absorbed with _'No revenge'_ and _'You can do whatever you want'_, coupled with an image of Sylar's face looking up at him that morning, and the feel of his lip under Peter's thumb. He tried to blink it away. "We'll figure it out."

XXX

They ate. Sylar combed Peter's hair. It wasn't something Peter cooperated with much. They were on a bench against the wall in the weight room, which didn't make it easy for Sylar to stand behind Peter, had he tried. Peter could have turned sideways, or moved to one of the pieces of equipment, but he did nothing. A lot of nothing had happened while they'd eaten, too. Peter, still pondering what he'd agreed to, determinedly didn't make eye contact. Sylar fidgeted in the silence. Maybe that had something to do with his current approach, which was to scoot close until their knees bumped, then reach out with the comb. Obligingly, Peter bowed his head forward, but that was the only assistance he gave.

It was the first time Sylar had done this facing Peter, and Peter found his eyes rising in curiosity to read the other man's expression. It was studious and attentive, not at all the lustful or engrossed look that Peter had imagined. Or maybe that was just the face Sylar was using now that he could be seen.

He finished; put away the comb. Then Sylar reached back, taking Peter's chin in his hand and tugging him forward as he leaned in. As soon as Peter recognized he was being pulled in for a kiss, he jerked away and sat up straight, leaving Sylar to tilt back to vertical more slowly, a sulky, suspicious look on his face to go with the hard, unwelcoming one on Peter's.

"Tell me again what 'okay' means," Sylar asked guardedly, like he felt he was getting ripped off here.

Peter looked away, exhaling. He'd been thinking about that as he ate. "It means … It means I'm going to try. I'm … going to be … open, I guess. To you. It's not something I'll say no to automatically, but it doesn't mean I'm …" _automatically going to say yes, either._ "I don't know," he ended with a frustrated shake of his head. He felt like he was the bad guy here, not falling into line and letting Sylar have his way with him, or whatever the plot was. He stared blankly at the floor for a while, before finally turning to look at Sylar, who had been sitting still and silent the whole while.

Sylar reached out, telegraphing clearly, and touched a stray lock of Peter's long bangs. He rolled it briefly between his fingers, then leaned forward to tuck it behind Peter's ear. "You like it when I touch you like this," Sylar said, making it a question.

"I like it when you touch me," Peter agreed, making his answer broader intentionally. He shifted his knee against Sylar's, drawing attention to the contact he hadn't objected to or pulled away from. It was just getting presumptively pulled into kisses when he wasn't ready that he wasn't into. Well, that and probably a host of other things, an inconvenient number of them involving his brother's killer, who was perversely also the guy he had the unbearable hots for at the moment - enough so that he literally had trouble thinking at times. _The universe, or at least my sex drive, has a pretty sick sense of humor._

A small cock of Sylar's head indicated he'd heard Peter's distinction. Instead of pulling his hand away, he curled his fingers and skimmed the knuckles down the side of Peter's face. Peter leaned forward receptively. He could see the 'ah' on Sylar's face as he started exploring a careful, arm's length intimacy that _was_ a leap beyond what they'd done before, even if it wasn't the immediate kiss Sylar had expected. He fingers trailed across Peter's jaw and up his cheek, over the patchy hints of stubble. They came down the side of Peter's nose, making Peter's lids tremor - not quite a flutter, but this slow torture was sexier than any rushing would have been. Peter's lips parted, eyes darkening, and he turned his face a little so Sylar's fingers came down over his lips instead of the corner of his mouth.

Sylar paused there, rubbing one finger back and forth over Peter's lower lip, folding it down just a little. He paused in the middle and Peter reached up to capture that hand, pulling it away and looking at it. Sylar frowned at first, then lost that expression for one of watchfulness as he realized what Peter was doing. Peter examined the hand, turning it palm up and touching over it feather-light. Sylar tensed a little, probably involuntary, probably ticklish. Peter stroked along the sensitive skin more firmly, tracing each finger and taking his time about it.

When done, he lifted Sylar's hand, molding it to cup his cheek. He shut his eyes, holding it to him, breathing in the faint scent that accompanied the appendage. Sylar flexed his fingers a bit under where Peter was holding him, making short strokes of fingertips over the side of his face. Peter opened his eyes, turned his head a little, and bit Sylar on the fleshy part of the base of his thumb. Sylar made a noise of desire, mouth opening as his fingers twitched and his other hand went to Peter's knee. Peter's tongue flicked out to lick along the trapped flesh, evoking an actual groan this time from the other man.

He released him, moving his hand to Sylar's face for the briefest brush before sweeping behind his head to bury into his hair. Sylar leaned forward eagerly, eyes on Peter's lips. An inch or two from the prize, Peter's hand made a fist, Sylar stopped with a gasp and a flash of anger.

Peter raised a brow at Sylar's expression. "Anything I want?"

"That's what I said," the other man growled.

"No revenge? No retaliation?"

Sylar looked over Peter's shoulder, eyes losing focus for a moment. "Not if you hold up your end of the bargain."

"There's a bargain, huh?" Peter's hand twisted and Sylar bared his teeth at the pain. "You didn't mention that before." Peter was right in the other man's face, his free hand on Sylar's forearm. Sylar's other hand held in mid-air, as though not sure what to do. "What's my end?" Peter demanded.

"I've seen how you look at me. _**Act**_ on it!"

_Deal._ Peter jerked Sylar forward to kiss him, brutal, fast, and hard, leaving the man breathless and gaping when Peter pulled him away by the hair, tilting his head back to bite the side of his throat firmly enough to bruise. Sylar grunted. Peter yanked him back again. "Anything?" When Sylar didn't answer instantly, Peter twisted his hand in the man's hair again. "I want to hear you say it!"

"Yes," Sylar snarled.

Peter kissed him again immediately, a little softer this time, loosening his grip. This time he let his tongue play along Sylar's lips - wet, delicious, and just as wonderfully plump as they'd looked. The idea of being able to do anything he wanted to Sylar - hell, the reality of it - was making him hard for the second time today. This was the kinkiest game he'd ever played, no doubt, and he'd played some doozies. He needed to know the rules, though. "What do you want to do?"

"You're the one with the last name of Petrelli here. You call the shots."

"Hm," Peter hummed, kissing Sylar gently on the neck, licking and sucking softly. Sylar's free hand finally found a home on Peter's shoulder, holding him. He had Sylar right where he wanted him at the moment, Peter's fist still in his hair, holding the man's head back and exposing his throat to Peter's questing mouth. "I need a hint, though. You like kissing?"

"I like what you're doing." Sylar was panting, his hand rolling over Peter's shoulder restlessly.

"Kay," Peter said, nibbling up to the man's jaw, kissing and tasting, losing himself in the moment as his mind supplied him images of Sylar in lust for him, trying on dominant or submissive for size. "You prefer fucking or being fucked?"

Sylar snorted and said sarcastically, "I don't know, Peter. How are you as a bottom?"

Peter tilted Sylar's head back to even to look right into his eyes. "Wildly enthusiastic," Peter rasped, locking his lips over Sylar's startled ones, turning his head to plunge his tongue inside deeply. Sylar made a surprised noise at the invasion, then a moan as he sagged into it. Peter snatched him away before he got too invested. "How are _you_? As a bottom?"

"Uh." Sylar blinked uncertainly. "Fine. Good, actually." Peter could see the man trying to bolster the poor advertising his tone had given.

Peter didn't let Sylar finish getting his feet under him, and pressed him. "You ever done it?"

"Yes," Sylar said with a curl of the lip.

Peter tilted his head, watching him carefully. That disgust on Sylar's face answered in the negative as to whether he'd liked it, so Peter skipped that as a question. "Were you willing?"

Sylar's eyes dulled and his expression faded towards fear. He evaded the question with, "I _said_ you could do whatever you wanted."

_Rape? Huh_. Peter kissed him again, lighter, and this time Sylar took the initiative in forcing himself into Peter's mouth. Peter let him have a good, long plundering. When they parted, Peter said, "Good. You're in luck. I prefer to bottom." He pressed his cheek to Sylar's, rubbing against him and getting an overload of sensation. It pulled an inarticulate 'guh' noise from Sylar. "Anything else I need to know here?" Peter whispered in his ear before pulling away. Sylar's eyes darted around Peter's face, but he said nothing. Peter went on, "You like oral?"

"Who doesn't?"

"I've met people who didn't. But I like it, so we're in sync there." Peter placed a light kiss on the point of Sylar's chin, needing only a tiny tug to keep the other man from trying to make it lips-to-lips. Sylar was easily trained (or at least a fast learner). Peter liked that. "What about other stuff? Kinks I need to know about? Things that freak you out?"

"I can take anything you want to try."

Peter's brows rose and his head snaked forward, biting Sylar hard on the thinner skin just under his jaw. Fingers dug into his shoulder and curled around his elbow, drawing him closer rather than pushing him away. Sylar groaned. Peter leaned away, staring at the reddened, darkening mark. He'd never done that with another partner, but the situation with Sylar was extraordinary in a lot of ways. Peter had a lot of anger that he'd been keeping buried in the interests of being civil. Intimacy was stripping that away, fast. He wanted to hurt Sylar. _No retaliation._

XXX

Peter rose from sore knees, blow job complete, and kissed Sylar open-mouthed as the shower rained down on both of them. He was watching for the moment of alarm, and not disappointed, when it crossed Sylar's features after their mouths met. Whether or not Sylar could taste himself was irrelevant – it was the idea and just how far Sylar's 'anything goes' would go. Sylar had a moment of tense revulsion before shutting his eyes and sliding his hands around Peter's back, tonguing him in return.

XXX

Peter turned Sylar around, nudging his legs apart for a more thorough swabbing and scrubbing. Sylar looked back hesitantly, knuckles turning white where his fingers flexed against the tile. But he made no objection. Peter kissed him on the shoulder. "I might have my mouth down here later. Need you squeaky clean."

Sylar's befuddled expression was priceless. He either wasn't familiar with rimming, or didn't understand why Peter might do that for him.

XXX

Peter handed over the lube, as it was clear Sylar was about to fuck him without it. It was a reality check for Peter. It wasn't the first sign that Sylar was a virgin at this, but it sealed the deal. "Prep me first," Peter insisted. A few moments later, Peter laughed and wrestled Sylar onto his back. "No, no, no. We're going to have a demo first on you, so you know what I'm talking about. Don't worry," he said to Sylar's look. "I won't fuck you."

"You can," Sylar said, his voice rough.

"Kinda had my heart set on the other," Peter sighed, kissing him again for Sylar's complete submission. It didn't cease to amaze, thrill, and arouse him to have such a powerful man going to such lengths to please him.

XXX

It took Peter a few moments to figure out why Sylar had stopped. "Just because_ I'm_ done doesn't mean _you_ have to be. **Finish**," he ordered, watching as Sylar's eyes ran over Peter's face as if double checking his sincerity. Peter drew back his knees a little further and pulled Sylar forward, deeper inside of him. A barely guarded expression of relief settled on Sylar before being chased off by lust as he began plowing Peter in earnest again. Peter jerked him down for another savage kiss, followed by mauling Sylar's throat for the umpteenth time.

XXX

Peter lay half propped up, his fingers tracing the bruises and bite marks that littered Sylar's jaw, neck and upper chest. The guy had a couple on his back, too, one on his arm and another decorating a butt cheek. Other than a few possible bruises, Peter was untouched. "Do you mind? These marks?"

"No."

Peter smiled faintly, frightened by what he was becoming. "I've never done this to anyone." His eyes went up to Sylar's, which were steady and unbothered by the surprising violence of Peter's passion. He seemed serene - utterly fulfilled by the use he was being put to.

"I'm glad," Sylar said in one of his customary plurisignifications.

XXX

"Tell me you hate me!" Peter snarled, ramming into Sylar from behind, one hand fisted in his hair while the other held him steady at the hip. Sylar made a guttural gasp at the force being used.

"I-I hate you," Sylar said insincerely, confused by the order.

"Tell me you wish I was dead."

"I wish you were dead," Sylar said with more emphasis.

"Tell me you're glad you killed Nathan."

"I …" Sylar shuddered.

Peter twisted his hair, arching him back as Sylar made a muffled sound of pain. "Say it!"

"I'm-I'm glad I killed Nathan."

"Now tell me you deserve this for everything you've done."

XXX

"Oh God! I love you. I love you doing this. Fucking me. God, fuck me, yeah! Sylar? Come- Ow!"

Sylar slapped him hard, leaving Peter blinking and wordless. A second later, Peter started to struggle away. Sylar grabbed him, long arms and strong hands, pinning him.

"Hey! Let go of me! Stop it!"

"Shut the fuck up! Shut up!"

Sylar shoved him up against the headboard, still deep inside of him, and managed to get his hands on both of Peter's wrists. He was tight enough between Peter's legs that he was impossible to kick. Peter squirmed, skewered on Sylar's shaft, feeling every inch of it sheathed so deeply inside of him, the hands clasped firmly around his wrists, and the sting on his cheek. He wanted to fight. He ended up moaning.

"Fucking liar," Sylar snarled, and gave his ass the hammering of his life.

XXX

Peter pleaded, "What was it I said?"

"I told you I didn't want to talk about it!"

"Sylar …" Peter snatched the shirt out of the man's hands in frustration, momentarily thwarting Sylar's attempt to leave. "If you're going to run out on me, at least tell me why!"

Sylar tipped his head down, glaring and managing to be intimidating even half dressed. "I will fuck you, be fucked by you, talk dirty, whatever. But I will not be _lied_ to!"

Peter blinked, affronted. "You think I was lying when I said I enjoyed it?"

Sylar crowded into his face, and his whisper was more frightening than any yelling would have been. "Tell me again how much you _love_ me, Peter Petrelli."

XXX

Days passed in silence. Then finally …

A shy look.

A derisive snort.

Sidling closer.

Walking away.

_Thock!_ A piece of gravel smacked Sylar between the shoulder blades.

An angry glare.

An impish mien; another small stone, bounced up and down in a palm.

Shoved against the wall, stone lost, Sylar's mouth crushed against Peter's.

A wanton moan; fingers curling into hair; hips grinding against the taller man.

Pants unfastened, whirling Peter so he faces the wall, hot breaths in the man's ear, followed by an unbearable tongue.

Lube snagged out of the pants pocket as they're shoved down. Peter hands it back to Sylar's bark of laughter.

A kiss, tender and sweet, gentle and lingering, at the join of Peter's shoulder and neck, from behind, as he's prepped. Inhaling his scent. It's been missed - oh so much!

A joining of bodies, out in the street. Release. Turning back to face Sylar, hugging him, cuddling, stroking with hesitant fingers. Mindful of the need to be careful with Sylar.

Combing his hair. Taking care of the little brat. Still amused that Peter had lube with him.

"I do. Love you."


	23. Overdoze

**Title:** Overdoze  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar, Peter  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Dubious consent of the drug-induced variety.  
><strong>Word count:<strong> 900  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sylar tends to Peter after Peter sustains a bad injury. The complications from the injury aren't limited to medical.

"I think I overdosed you on the morphine."

"Nah. Fells fine. Izza good," Peter slurred confidently. "Only buzzes."

Sylar leaned in close, looking beyond Peter's droopy lids. "Your eyes are _really_ dilated."

Peter gave a relaxed, crooked smile and reached up with his free hand to surprisingly lay his palm against Sylar's cheek. Sylar froze. Peter patted. "Your face … izzo cloze. Good face. I like it."

"I like it, too, Peter," Sylar said guardedly, scanning and re-scanning Peter's face, looking for some sign that this was anything other than a spontaneous, drug-induced observation. He didn't see any indication of premeditated manipulation.

Since Sylar hadn't moved away, Peter kept smiling and turned his hand to stroke over the bristly cheek. "Mesclun," he said, which took Sylar a few moments to translate from 'salad greens' into 'masculine'. "Good face. Great lisps." He touched them and Sylar leaned forward a little, wondering how unethical it was to enjoy this unexpected intimacy. He knew Peter was suffering liberally from drug-induced lowered inhibitions. He'd never approve of this clean and sober. For a long, breathless moment, Peter's fingertips tickled against Sylar's lips like a lover's touch. "Kissing lisps." Peter smiled wider and let his hand fall. "Ein not makin any senz, am I?"

"Not much, no," Sylar said quietly, pulling in a deep breath and letting it out again. More than anything, he wanted that to continue.

"Feel good, though. Izza doze, you know? Notta ovadoze. Doze. Differnt."

"Of course." Sylar watched as Peter's lids drooped again and his face relaxed. Peter had fallen after some ill-advised climbing and untrained acrobatics, resulting in a nastily compound fracture of his arm, a hyper-extended knee and what seemed to be a twisted ankle. Details were hard to come by without doctors or x-ray machines. Sylar had gotten Peter to the hospital, empty and untended as it was, and struggled to follow Peter's irritable, pained directions on patching him up. When everything was as fixed as it was going to get without the passage of time, Peter had finally requested painkillers. By that point, Sylar was only too happy to give them. He had, perhaps, been too enthusiastic with the dosage (but with the best and most innocent of intentions). Without abilities, Peter had clearly been suffering badly. Just as clearly, now, he was not. In fact, he looked kind of like Sylar had imagined Peter would post-coital - damp locks, relaxed face, blissed out, glazed eyes. _**Sexy**_._ Oh, so sexy!_

_Please forgive me,_ Sylar intoned mentally as he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Peter's, unable or unwilling to resist the temptation.

Peter made a surprised noise and hesitated for a long moment. Sylar ignored the pregnant pause and continued the kiss, shutting his eyes, fairly confident that Peter was too stoned to resist him. Peter exhaled and settled into the kiss, working his lips against Sylar's with envious skill despite his stoned condition.

Sylar knew he ought to pull away and leave it at just the one brief kiss. Maybe he could deny it later. But instead Sylar shifted closer to Peter's head, running one hand into Peter's hair as he opened his mouth and Peter, still so relaxed and highly, highly suggestible, slid his tongue wetly within to tease at Sylar's teeth and gums. Sylar moaned and he felt Peter's free hand brush at his cheek and then ear. He gripped Peter's hair, turning the man's head and bending it back so he could plunder Peter's mouth as deeply as possible. He'd wanted to do this for so long! Peter made a deep crooning sound in response. Finally, after what Sylar was sure was long minutes, he pulled away. His lips were swollen with arousal, as were Peter's. Poor Peter. He looked completely baked.

The thought that he could keep Peter drugged like this for as long as he wanted crossed his mind. A quick glance down Peter's bandaged, splinted body dissuaded any further thoughts of a sexual nature. Pumped full of enough opiates, it seemed that Peter was likely to cooperate, but Sylar found his willingness to further molest the unresisting man flagging. What he'd already done was bad enough. "How angry are you going to be at me for this?"

Peter licked his lips and looked confused, staring off to the side. Sylar tugged him back by his hair and kissed him deeply again. It was disturbing and gratifying that Peter returned it so passionately. When they parted, Peter said breathlessly, "We're not spoze be kissin, are we?"

Sylar smiled wanly at him. "No. But that's never stopped me in the past." With a great sigh, Sylar tore himself away from the source of his temptation. He stood and walked to the door. "I'm going to let you get some rest."

"Kay." Peter gave him a dismissive, unbothered wave, shut his eyes, and went to sleep. Sylar watched him as Peter's breathing slowed and deepened under the continuing effects of the drugs. Now he had to debate whether to try to convince Peter it was just a drug-induced hallucination, or to admit to taking advantage of the situation. There was so much _worse_ he could have done, after all, and Peter knew Sylar had helped him. Wouldn't that count for something?


	24. Novelty Value

Sylar's fingers skimmed ever-so-lightly over Peter's hair, reveling in how it felt to touch someone who was with him willingly, knowing who and what he was. He could barely believe the previous twelve hours had happened and that here he was, in bed with the man. Peter stirred finally at the continuing, slight caresses, blinking up sleepily at him. Sylar snatched his hand away and did his best to appear guiltless. That was tough - Peter had stripped away one defense after another until he felt more naked than he'd ever been. Sylar found himself being self-conscious at every turn and wildly insecure.

Peter gave him a long, wary gaze before looking away and, most surprisingly to Sylar, snuggling up closer. _How long until those looks fade? _Sylar wondered, tingling inside that despite his reservations, Peter accepted him as a source of comfort. _Will there come a day when he's not guarded against me?_ Sylar could only hope, but the fact that he'd made it this far made it seem possible. Peter was too tense to have fallen back to sleep, so Sylar raised his hand to pet his head more openly. He hadn't been refused, after all. Peter made a small sound of pleasure and cuddled a bit tighter, relaxing _now_ due solely to Sylar's touch.

That sound … it moved Sylar more than even their first kiss. His heart soared so much he felt light-headed. It was such a simple thing, but to have touched someone and had them show contentment instead of fear, solace instead of fright! He'd touched Peter's silky hair and instead of a flinch, gained a wriggle and squeeze. It took Sylar's breath away, which seemed like a very strange reaction to him. He wanted to pull Peter up and kiss him joyfully. He barely restrained himself, instead laying his hand to the side of Peter's head and hugging it to his chest as he shut his eyes, lashes wet.

Someone liked him, and it wasn't just for the sex, the abilities, or some arcane manipulative ploy – an experience so novel it was heart-breaking.


	25. Yours

**Title:** Yours  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar, Peter  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Word count:<strong> 2,100  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sylar's POV, then Peter's POV. A persistent miscommunication almost ruins the guy's attempts to get what they need from the other.  
><strong>Notes: <strong>Inspired by a line from means2bhuman's "Truth is"

* * *

><p>Peter stared him down, or at least tried to. Sylar's offer hung in the air between them and he wasn't about to look away first. He knew Peter wanted him; was willing; and all possible objections were dealt with. But none of that mattered if he couldn't seal the deal. Something was still wrong, because Peter snorted, lip curling a little, and turned his back to walk away.<p>

Sylar could have cried with frustration. He'd been working on this for so long! No one else in the whole world and he still couldn't get a connection with the only other person here! "What do I need to do?" he asked in desperation before Peter could get too far from the building they'd been hanging out in front of.

Peter wheeled immediately. Sylar stiffened; Peter's haste made him worry about an attack – doubly so when Peter's hand came up, but at least it was open, fingers curling as though to grab, not strike. Sylar's eyes blazed and he pulled his head back, doing nothing otherwise. He wouldn't run or quail. Peter seized him by the hair and jerked on his head – not with the intent of inflicting pain, but apparently to position him. Pulled off balance, Sylar stumbled, not sure if Peter was trying to force him to his knees (_for a blow job?_), or something else. Peter managed to steer his head to where he wanted it, face tilted down, but still on his feet. Sylar didn't understand what was going on, so he went to his go-to and glared death at his assailant.

"**Look down!**" Peter bit out and Sylar did. He was still confused. The pavement was unremarkable. Their shoes were normal. He started to look up, but that was simultaneous with Peter shifting position to edge a few inches closer to him. A light bulb went off over Sylar's well-gripped head. It was the looking down itself that Peter wanted! _Ah-hah!_ Sylar knew this game, much as he hadn't expected Peter to play it. His spine straightened and his neck relaxed as he assumed the position of a shame-faced child waiting for his lecture.

Peter's hand loosened. "That's what I want." The man was breathing harder, Sylar noted. "I want … some sign of … _respect_." Peter's voice thickened and strained. His hand slid free of Sylar's hair more slowly than it needed to. "At least the _illusion_ of it. I don't expect it to be real." If Sylar didn't miss his guess, Peter almost choked up there at the end. Peter released him and strode away as before, back stiff, and frame coiled with tension.

_No lecture_, Sylar thought, relieved and disappointed at the same time. Peter had moved right up next to him there and he'd liked that. It was not the game Sylar had expected, but this one, too, was known. He wasn't sure what all of Peter's emotion was about. It was hardly an unusual requirement. The guy was a Petrelli – demanding obeisance was in his blood. So he needed a little sucking up to get off. _Respect my ass. You want subservience._ Sylar hurried after him, silent this time, and settled in a few steps behind and to the right, wondering if Peter wanted him to play the whole part of low, unworthy creature – and unsure of how much of that he'd be able to swallow. Was it a connection if it was all one-way?

Peter glanced back and his strides slowed. Sylar paced him. Peter slowed again. Sylar let his longer strides move him next to Peter, who sped up so they were walking together. _No 'two steps behind' BS - good sign_. Peter looked over at him and Sylar dropped his eyes immediately. Peter gave a small shake of his head and stopped.

_Am I doing it wrong?_ Sylar kept his eyes downcast, shoulders hunched and hands in pockets.

Peter came closer to him, right over to him, reaching out slowly to hook his fingers around Sylar's left forearm. Sylar could see, in his peripheral vision, that Peter was watching his face constantly. _Don't blow this_, Sylar cautioned himself. It seemed quite possible he'd only get one chance, especially with Peter as wound up as he seemed to be. It would at least be the only chance he got for a long while. Peter shifted closer, just as he had before when he'd managed to man-handle Sylar into a submissive posture. Sylar blinked repeatedly, dipping his head and relaxing. When a small motion of Peter's head indicated he was looking elsewhere (to Sylar's shoulder, which he was now caressing, much to Sylar's delight), Sylar risked a glance up.

_This is all it took? All this time? Fuck, Peter! Why didn't you tell me? I train easily. Try me, please! _He could smell Peter – a warm, inviting scent that disarmed and excited him at the same time. He assumed Peter could smell him, too. Peter's right hand curled behind Sylar's left shoulder and his left hand reached over to gently tug Sylar's right from his pocket. Sylar dropped his head a little lower, softening his stance and bringing his face closer to Peter's. Peter was holding his hand – it seemed sweet and weird, especially given Sylar's previous offer of himself for use.

Sylar tilted his head marginally, gratified when Peter echoed the motion, bringing their lips inches apart. Peter drew in breath and Sylar held very still, eyes switching between Peter's lips and the generic 'down'. Peter leaned in that last distance and pressed a small, chaste kiss to his lips. The sensation itself was nice beyond description, but it was the emotion that shot through Sylar that really did it – accomplishment, satisfaction, joy, self-esteem. He'd made it; he'd done it; he'd found the right buttons to push and levers to pull to get to this point. It had taken forever and endless hashing out of issues until nothing stood in his way except a trivial aping of a behavior Sylar was more than happy to provide.

Peter smiled and glanced down, as though shy now that he'd gotten what he wanted. Sylar whispered softly in his ear, "I'm yours."

* * *

><p>Sylar's words gave everything; his body language denied it all. Peter glared, angry at the contradiction between the two, and angry that Sylar glared right back. It was like offering a gift with a sneer and a contemptuous look. Peter wanted none of it - no matter how attractively Sylar packaged it, the delivery was setting Peter off. He snorted, turned on his heel and walked away, fuming quietly to himself. <em>What is Sylar getting at with these idiotic offers? If he wants me to take him up on something, then he needs to act like it's something other than a challenge to single combat!<em>

Only a few steps into leaving, Sylar called out behind him, "What do I need to do?" His tone was still angry and defiant, but the words he chose had never been so plaintive.

For once, Peter ignored the body language and tone, going strictly off what was being said - a big departure for him, but he felt like he was banging his head against a brick wall here with Sylar's offers. He spun and walked back, grabbing at Sylar's head and getting it easily enough. Peter had half thought his intended action would start a fight, but he was riled enough not to care. He shoved Sylar's head around until it pointed where he wanted, which was tough to do. The guy wasn't cooperating and from the look on Sylar's face, at any moment fists might fly.

Peter didn't care. He was tired of being told one thing while Sylar acted another way entirely. "**Look down!**" he snapped and Sylar did. _Thank God._ Peter took two panting breaths, relaxing a little, and shifted closer to Sylar. Sylar seemed to have finally gotten the message, because he didn't look up and he, too, relaxed his posture. Peter let go of the guy's hair.

"That's what I want," Peter said and the simple experience of being right next to the man, touching him, seeing Sylar contrite or at least looking like it did so much to defuse Peter. "I want … some sign of … _respect_." _I count, right? Do I matter to you? I want to feel like I matter._ Peter's throat constricted as his most naked of vulnerabilities came to the fore. His hand slid free of Sylar's hair, feeling how nice the strands were as they slipped through his fingers. "At least the _illusion_ of it. I don't expect it to be real." He had to struggle for his voice not to crack on that last. _Not with the way you look at me. Just … can I at least pretend I'm something other than the last man on Earth to you?_

But Peter knew he wasn't going to get any of that. Even if he did, it was an _illusion_ - fake. How long would that satisfy? Yearning and frustrated, Peter walked away as briskly as he could, trying to hold his head high. He wanted to lash out, but there was nothing and no one available but Sylar. He gnashed his teeth, but quit a moment later when he heard Sylar's steps hurry along behind him.

_Fine. Great. So we're walking somewhere together now. I don't even know where the fuck I'm going. Sure, tag along with the guy who you have zilch respect for and who just admitted that he'd sleep with you if all you did was give it good face._ Sylar didn't catch up, opting instead to walk several paces behind, like he understood how wound up Peter was.

Still, Peter wasn't going to stroll along with a fucking shadow. He adjusted his pace until Sylar figured it out and fell into step beside him. Peter glanced over and Sylar dropped his gaze to the ground with alacrity. _What the fuck?_ Peter stopped immediately and shook his head. _I traded the angry for the … this_. He looked at Sylar, who studied his feet with bowed head, meek and accommodating in demeanor. _That's ... not what I meant._

What made an impression, though, was that Sylar was trying to give Peter exactly what he had asked for. Peter realized that, along with the certainty that it wasn't actually fake. Well, yes, Sylar was acting, but he was doing it out of sincere desire to win Peter over. Peter stepped closer - intimately close - and Sylar didn't budge. Peter stroked the guy's nearer arm through the long-sleeved shirt Sylar wore, feeling the wrinkles in it and the warmth of flesh underneath. Sylar stood like a statue - a very respectful statue. Peter tried to tell himself he didn't require this sort of passivity, but it was working. The active, aggressive version of Sylar was pretty intimidating. It brought to mind so many moments of being hurt by this guy. Peter wasn't attracted to that. But this … well …

Peter eased one hand behind Sylar's shoulder while the other pulled one of Sylar's hands out of his pocket. Peter just held it, smiling a little at how oddly innocent it seemed. The times he'd imagined them doing something intimate, it had generally been violent - arousing in private, frightening in the flesh. He rubbed his thumb affectionately across the back of Sylar's hand. _You're sincere, right? You really mean this? Is that what all the confusion has been about - too defensive to show your hand?_ The man sidled towards him with a lean and a turn of his torso. Peter could see what he was angling towards and matched him, drawing in a breath to fortify himself.

Lips softly puckered, he pressed them to Sylar's without pausing for thought, because he knew if he did, he'd probably chicken out. As kisses went, it was brief and mild, but very, very sweet. Peter's stomach somersaulted and he tingled all over as he leaned back. That one small act had changed everything. He knew it; could feel it. He'd accepted the gift Sylar had so persistently offered him. It was the greatest gift Sylar had to give: himself. He had accepted … Sylar.

Peter smiled and looked down, still holding the man's hand, feeling deeply honored. As if able to read his thoughts, Sylar leaned close and breathed into Peter's ear, "I'm yours."


	26. Dreams

**Title: **Dreams  
><strong>Characters: <strong>Peter Petrelli, Sylar  
><strong>Rating: <strong>R  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>None  
><strong>Word count: <strong>~700  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Sylar asks Peter about the sort of things most people have nightmares about. Turns out that Peter's reaction to one of those 'nightmare' situations isn't quite normal. 

Peter jerked as he woke, coming upright in the chair, reaching out into the air to grasp at it. "Whah?" He looked around Sylar's apartment wildly. Sylar himself stood near the door of his refrigerator, juice bottle in hand. He looked back at Peter with an intent curiosity. He wasn't what Peter was looking for, though, so he got ignored. Instead, Peter levered himself out of the chair and went to the window, pulling back the curtains and staring out.

It was the same familiar landscape as always - trapped in Sylar's head. Peter felt a dying surge of desperation. "There wasn't a siren?" He looked over to Sylar, who had come to the entrance of the kitchen to see what Peter was doing.

A small smile played about Sylar's lips, recognizing Peter's misplaced hope. There was no life in this place but the two of them. "No."

Peter turned his back on the window, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head. "I was in the ambulance. Bad dream."

Wanting to know more of what demons plagued Peter's sleep, Sylar asked, "Were you driving?"

"No. I was in the back taking care of a patient, except I kept _falling asleep_." Peter made an exasperated 'what can you do' gesture with his arms and shoulders, pushing off the windowsill and heading towards Sylar, who faded back into the kitchen.

Sylar laughed a little. He'd asked about driving because he'd had bad dreams where he was driving and the brakes were out, or he couldn't steer. The dream would progress from one terrifying near-miss to the next. It was interesting that Peter's fear was in failing his patients, whereas Sylar's was in losing control. "You ever had one of those nightmares where you showed up somewhere naked?" he asked, slouching against the kitchen counter as Peter got out a glass and 'borrowed' the juice from him in a comfortable, familiar manner that made Sylar's heart sing every time it happened. It seemed so_ normal_ and _friendly_. He smiled softly at Peter, almost dreamy-eyed enough to miss Peter's lurch and bizarre reaction. But not too much. Sylar's brows pulled in a twitch.

Peter's reaction wasn't the breezy, meaningless, 'oh yeah, I've had that dream' answer Sylar expected. It was … guilty. And furtive. "Uh, nn." Peter poured his juice and handed back the container, which Sylar took with a title of his head at Peter's sudden inarticulateness.

Sylar could have waited him out, but that would give Peter more time to come up with a cover. So he pressed, "Is it usually at school or at work?"

"Um." Peter cleared his throat and took a sip and if Sylar didn't miss his mark, Peter was _blushing_. "Um, you know," Peter mumbled, "just social gatherings and stuff. Class. Yeah, sometimes class." Peter looked pointedly away.

One thing Sylar greatly, _vastly_ appreciated about this world was that Peter couldn't (or at least didn't) dodge him very much. Neither of them had any other obligations to rush off to. There was no excuse of 'I need to go do X' to use to cut short a conversation you didn't want. Now being trapped with someone meant Sylar was having to learn all kinds of lessons on boundaries, but at the same time he gloried in getting to be with someone and not being _ignored_. Not as a general rule, at least.

"Tell me - what's the most embarrassing thing that happens in those dreams?" Because the 'naked in an inappropriate place' dream was so standard as to be a repeated trope of popular media. It shouldn't be triggering this reaction from Peter.

Very quietly, still looking away, Peter said, "That I'm, uh … that I'm usually turned on by it."

Sylar's brows shot up. "They're not nightmares."

Peter didn't answer, but that was answer enough by itself.


	27. Given and Taken

**Title: **** Given and Taken**  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Handcuffs, graphic sexual content  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>3,600  
><strong>Summary:<strong> In the Wall, Sylar tries something desperate to get Peter's attention.

Sylar clicked the handcuff into place when he heard Peter approaching. He had no idea if this plan was going to work. It seemed a bit risky even for him, a man who had long taken suicidal risks for a living. But he was getting desperate here in this lonely place. The anger and energy Peter had carried with him for the first months here had faded and then they'd settled into a boring, monotonous routine. Every advance Sylar made was politely rebuffed, so it was time to abandon polite and go straight for overt. It helped that Sylar knew Peter was into him. He'd seen the looks, heard the occasional sharp intake of breath and noisy swallows. Sometimes he could almost feel Peter's reciprocal lust, but until now, there'd always been some dodge Peter could use to deny it.

It would be impossible to deny _this_.

Peter came around the corner, headed towards the gym. Sylar couldn't see him, as he was facing away, but he could imagine. Despite how unnecessary it was, Peter came fully dressed to work out, carrying a gym bag. It was another of those ruts they'd sunk into. It was what he did every day, with the expectation of changing and showering here. What he saw had to jar those expectations.

Sylar was buck naked, standing face to the wall in the gym, hands cuffed over his head with the chain looped through a piece of iron piping that he'd already tested for strength. Next to him was a backless bench with a towel and a bottle of lube, should he be so lucky as to need it. He'd thought about adding implements for the infliction of pain, but he didn't want to look too eager for that.

Peter's footsteps had stopped. Now came the job of luring him in. Assuming, of course, Peter even wanted the bait. Before Peter had rounded that corner, Sylar had been so certain. Now that he knew that not only was his posterior on display, but he was trapped with no easy way out … doubt racked him. He shifted his weight uneasily as his breathing sped up.

"Sylar?" Peter's voice sounded choked. He was probably startled, maybe even flabbergasted. Sylar shifted again, chain clinking against the pipe. This might have been a monumentally bad idea. But Peter walked closer when Sylar didn't answer, his steps slow but undeniably closer. It was a good sign. Hopefully. Maybe. Because it was not lost on Sylar that Peter's anger about Nathan, about who Sylar had been before, was not entirely gone. He was making himself utterly helpless here, completely and literally exposed to whatever whim might strike the other man.

He could see Peter in his peripheral vision, off to the right.

"What is this?" Peter's voice was deeper, heading towards husky if Sylar didn't miss his mark. Oh yes, that was _such_ a good sign.

"An offer," Sylar said quietly, struggling to keep his voice level.

Peter's bag hit the floor and a few more slow, cautious steps brought him closer. "Of _what?_" Peter was bending forward, trying to catch Sylar's eyes.

Gooseflesh pimpled Sylar's skin and to his own complete surprise, he blushed crimson, turning his face away and pressing it against his left bicep. Peter had to be able to see that, because he was pretty sure that even the back of his neck turned red. "Me," he mumbled in a low, frightened tone. He couldn't have faked that much sincerity if he'd tried. The situation was still balanced on a razor's edge. Peter took another step nearer, ending more behind him than to his side. Sylar sensed more than felt some motion of air along his back. Peter was close enough to touch him, but there was no contact – just the tickling, otherworldly sensation of proximity, like Peter had slowly waved his hand close to Sylar's skin. He shivered, arching a little and pulling at the chain.

Peter's voice sounded too close, immediately on his right shoulder, carrying so well even though it was an inquiring whisper. "Where's the key?"

The idea that Peter might just uncuff him and walk away shot through Sylar. How humiliating that would be – to have offered everything, _everything!_, up to and including torture – and to be cast aside as unwanted, left to get dressed on his own and figure out how to face up to Peter later. That would be the worst. It threatened to throw him into panic, just the suspicion of it. Voice trembling, he answered, "Please."

Fingers touched him then, right at the top of his left hip. They skimmed down over hip bone and the subtle curve where hip gave way to tendon before it was sheathed by the muscles of the butt or thigh. They loitered briefly there, tracing a few small circles before returning to his waist and settling there. "You're cold."

"Not for long," Sylar said in his deepest, most seductive voice, finding his confidence in Peter's touch.

This time he could swear he could feel Peter's breath on his shoulder. "I need to know – where's the key?"

Sylar shut his eyes and hung his head. If he didn't comply, it wasn't going to gain him anything. Peter could always just walk away and leave him here, or perhaps worse yet, go on with his workout. No, that wouldn't be worse. The idea of Peter staring at him throughout his workout was hot, even if it denied Sylar the level of interaction he wanted. No, worst would be if he just left. "On the bench. Under the towel."

Conceivably, it was within Sylar's reach. That had been the idea. He could stretch out a foot and reach it, should things go bad. He didn't need to look to hear Peter retrieve it, but he did when Peter didn't return immediately. A furtive glance revealed Peter to be looking at the bottle of lube with a slightly cocked head, like he hadn't noticed it before. Well … he'd probably been distracted by Sylar's naked body. Sylar smirked faintly at the thought. Peter straightened and Sylar resumed his defeated pose as the other man returned to him. Peter's hand smoothed up his spine from the small of his back to his shoulders. It was certainly a possessive gesture, one that made Sylar's pulse race despite how undecided things still were.

Peter's hand moved up along his arm – triceps, elbow, and forearm, coming to rest at his wrist. Skilled fingers tested the metal ring and for a moment Sylar's fear that Peter would release him reigned supreme. Then another realization set in – no, Peter was just making absolutely sure Sylar couldn't get away.

_Clever boy_.

"Metal cuffs are going to bite into your wrists pretty bad," Peter said reasonably, his body so close to Sylar's back that he felt the faintest scuff of fabric on his rump and shoulder. "And your arms are going to cramp before very long. Are you sure this is how you want to be?"

_It's the only way you'll take me, Peter,_ Sylar thought in frustrated desperation. It had taken him a lot longer than it should have to realize that Peter was afraid of him – months even. Peter was a brave man and he was willing to face his fears, but that didn't make them less present. Sylar had hit upon the idea of making himself entirely vulnerable, completely at Peter's mercy, as a way of evading that obstacle. Peter wouldn't fear him if he made himself helpless. If it hurt a little along the way – well, Sylar was no stranger to enduring a little (or a lot) of pain to get what he wanted. It would be familiar. Maybe even fun. "I want," he rasped out, "to be taken."

He wanted to be valued. He wanted to be wanted. He had no fucking coin in this realm. Money was meaningless, powers were non-existent, and he didn't even have any useful reputation or status to buoy him. He had, and was, _nothing_ unless Peter wanted him and it was clear that connection wouldn't be initiated by Peter. More days than Sylar wanted to count had shown him that.

Peter's hand traced back down his arm slowly, contemplatively, coming to rest on his shoulder. Sylar looked back now, eyes wide and uncertain. His fate, as it had for so long, rested in Peter's hands. Peter's expression was clouded by lust – lids heavy, lips parted, skin slightly flushed – but he was still warring inside. Sylar racked his brain for what would nudge Peter over the edge, struggling to think back through their hundreds of mundane, frequently impersonal encounters and tease out some key to Peter Petrelli's soul that would give him a tiny bit of leverage.

It occurred to him that what he, Sylar, was asking for was so selfish – pleasure me, I'm bored and horny – that it was a shock to him that Peter had even come this far. He'd just assumed that Peter wanted what was on offer and would provide what Sylar desired. Like it was fated, or chemistry, or an ability – something Sylar didn't have to work at. It was surely perverse that he was the bound and helpless victim here who was dictating the terms of the scene. That was when it came to him what he needed to do to win Peter's cooperation. "I want _you_," he whispered roughly.

That was it – so perfect and crystalline that Sylar wondered if his Intuitive Aptitude was still working, even here. He saw the shift in Peter's expression, the darkening of his eyes as pupils dilated, heard the heavier breathing. Peter's hand dropped, fingers ghosting across his back and dancing across ribs. Peter leaned forward, head tilting and coming up on his toes in an obvious invitation. Sylar arched and twisted awkwardly, meeting Peter's lips for their first kiss. It was clumsy and strained, but oh-so-real and sweet. So sweet, that even with his arch-enemy chained to a wall to do with as he pleased, Peter wanted to start things with a gentle press of lips.

When they parted, Peter nuzzled along his cheek as Sylar settled back into a less difficult position. He shivered at the unexpected intimacy and friendliness of that gesture. It was so unnecessary. Sylar had expected a fast, hard fuck and perhaps some abuse, or maybe no fuck at all and for Peter to vent his latent furies on him. Either was preferable to things continuing unchanged. He hadn't thought he'd actually be treated nicely.

What was Peter like in bed? It had been the subject of so many fantasies on Sylar's part. And Nathan's, too, that dirty-minded pervert. But regardless of what Peter was like with others, Sylar hadn't expected to rate that treatment. He'd just wanted to be something other than a nobody – someone special to Peter, someone other than his fellow prisoner in this screwed up empty world. Sylar wanted to have meaning.

Peter dipped, both hands resting on Sylar's waist as his lips created a line of four damp impressions horizontally across his back. After the last, he rose a few inches and bit him where the skin protruded over his shoulder blade.

Sylar whimpered. He knew he needed to give Peter cues and encouragement, not that it was difficult. Quite to the contrary. The uncertainty was fading fast and his own lust was rising, along with his parts. He felt warmth flooding his entire frame. No, he wasn't still cold. He'd been right about that much, as well as what would finally break through Peter's resolve. That knowledge was rushing through his veins, thrilling and filling him. He sawed the chain back and forth a bit, rattling it. He wished he could use his hands on his partner, now that he thought Peter was willing, but he had to endure the conditions he himself had imposed.

_Patience_.

Peter bit him on the shoulder, moving up directly behind him so Sylar could feel his clothed body chafing against his own bare one. The man's hands swept slowly around to his front, flowing along his abdomen and then climbing upward. Sylar breathed harder, sorry that Peter was skipping his main masculine attribute, but loving the tease. He was hugged against Peter's body and given a full press and rub.

Sylar spread his legs invitingly. "Take me," he ordered.

"No," Peter answered immediately.

"What?" Shock colored his voice as a pit of despair threatened to open in Sylar's gut.

"You don't get to tell me what to do." Sylar could hear the smile in Peter's voice. Peter's arms wrapped around him again, holding them tight together and forcing Sylar to take some of the weight on his wrists. He grimaced, shifting his grip to hold the chain itself. Then he was bitten again, Peter's teeth hard against the bunched muscle of his right deltoid. A moment later, Peter's left hand slid up into his hair, pulling his head back roughly so lips could tenderly caress his cheek in a strange juxtaposition of expectation and reality.

Sylar whined, getting it now (or so he imagined). He flexed back, pushing his ass into Peter's groin, feeling that his display was quite appreciated.

"Let me know if I'm hurting you," Peter breathed into his ear, "_too_ much," he added with a nip. He sucked at the lobe and then ran his tongue around the outer edge, giving Sylar's skin gooseflesh again and making him come up on his toes. Peter only jerked him back down to finish the job and this time Sylar moaned. The hand not occupied with Sylar's hair drifted down his front, testing one nipple and then the other, scratching through the chest hair in between. Sylar twitched in response to each pinch and rotation. It was enough fun that Peter's hand lingered there while he buried his face against the back of Sylar's hair, doing some perverted thing where he moved his face back and forth to feel the hair against his skin.

Another bite was delivered to the opposite deltoid, and Peter's hand dropped lower, skimming around his navel where it was briefly joined by the other, before dropping the rest of the way. Sylar's cock was at full attention, the tip bumping into his lower abdomen to alert him in case he hadn't noticed the heaviness or the straining, eager fullness. "_This_ is what I want," Peter whispered to him, kissing and laving the top of his shoulders as his fingers wrapped around a generous shaft.

Sylar's breath jerked at the touch and his hips followed suit almost immediately. Peter pressed him forward, closer to the wall so that Sylar rested his cheek against the mostly smooth, painted masonry of the gym wall. It gave him more leverage to push back with and let him take the weight of their bodies' motions on his forearms rather than his wrists. It was just a day for revelations – Sylar marveled how Peter knew this, how he knew what to do, how he knew what positions would strain and what sort of cuffs were best for this and how it would be better for Sylar if he was more flush with the wall. Had someone fucked Peter up against a wall like this before?

Nasty, dirty, filthy mental images flooded his brain as Peter's hand began to pump his cock, Peter's groin gyrating against Sylar's ass in time. Not for the first time, Sylar wished he wasn't so damn helpless here, able to do nothing at all but experience having someone else pleasure him. He moaned again, wanton and desirous. He could at least indicate what he liked and this … this was incredible.

"I want to have you in the palm of my hand," Peter murmured to him. "I want to feel you responding to every, single, little, thing, I do," Peter said, punctuating his pauses with tweaks to Sylar's nipples, gaining tiny squeaks and wriggles. "I want to be in control. I want to have you do, what I want you, to do."

Sylar's mind flew to Peter's oft-repeated request about Emma and the carnival. Oddly, with his cock in Peter's talented hand, he couldn't imagine why he'd ever refused the guy anything – anything at all. Preventing some broad from killing the world or whatever was immaterial next to getting _this_ again. _Sure, I'll do whatever. Just keep fucking me. _Sylar's brains had truly run out his ears.

"I don't _have_ to bring you pleasure." Peter paused in his stroking, leaving Sylar shifting his hips fruitlessly, no resistance to thrust into. Peter's free hand came up to the bottom of Sylar's breastbone, where he drug his nails down Sylar's exposed and vulnerable belly hard enough to leave furrows and provoke a gasp and brief writhe from the unexpected pain.

"Fuck!" Sylar hissed.

Peter's hands left him entirely and Sylar regretted that single word. He regretted it so, so much. _Come back! Peter?_

"I don't have to bring you _anything._"

Sylar whipped his head around, staring back in desperation. Surely Peter wasn't going to quit now. Was that his game? To get Sylar hot and bothered and on the cusp and then leave him? Maybe to mock and torment later? Would torture start now?

Peter stepped away from him, turning his back. He picked up the bottle of lube from the bench, squirting some in his hand. The sudden tension in Sylar's chest eased. Peter returned, leaned in, and kissed him again, hand reclaiming its previous place. Cool, slick wetness coated him, vastly increasing the sensation. Sylar's hips bucked against the hand and he felt himself spiraling back up even faster than before. He groaned aloud as his face returned to rest against the wall. He jerked hard on the chain, letting himself go, letting himself forget about everything and just experience. He made guttural, bestial grunts as Peter's fist slipped up and down, squeezing and releasing. Sylar rose up on his toes, made restless by his impending climax. His fingers clenched and unclenched as the spasm built within him.

"So strong," Peter murmured, one hand moving faster on Sylar's cock while the other wrapped securely around his chest, holding him in place to take Peter's ministrations. Sylar yanked on the chain again, trapped, held, restrained, pleasured. His arms ached, fire creeping into the muscles and spreading faster now that he was fighting with his bonds in earnest. His legs splayed in some animal instinct of complete sexual submission. In the back of his mind, he knew he should be embarrassed as hell, but this was scorching hot. Ecstasy flooded through him. His eyelids fluttered and his ball sac tightened. A moment later, his load splattered against the wall, accompanied by a gasping groan.

He sagged, brain off-line as surely as if he'd been clobbered over the head. He felt, though didn't really understand, as Peter wiped his lube-smeared hand rapidly on his own jeans and then reached up along Sylar's arms. He felt Peter fumble at the device and then take one of Sylar's hands and put it over his opposite wrist. "Hold yourself here. Hang on to yourself for a sec." Too dazed to ask questions, Sylar complied. A moment later there was a metallic click and the handcuffs swung free from one wrist. Peter's hands immediately covered his own, guiding them down slowly. Sylar's arms trembled. Sylar hadn't realized how much they'd started to suffer from the position.

Peter pulled him backwards a few feet and with a clatter of knocking the lube bottle out of the way, sat them both sideways on the bench with Peter spooned behind him.

_He's going to fuck me now?_ It seemed both appropriate and incongruous. Sylar had submitted entirely; Peter had gotten his power trip or whatever the fuck it was he needed to break down his otherwise impenetrable wall of scruples. But on the other hand, why go to all that bother if he just wanted to get his dick wet? He'd had a much better opportunity while Sylar was chained down.

But Peter didn't do much of anything. He held Sylar. Hugged him. Rested his chin on his shoulder, made possible by the relaxed, satiated slouch Sylar was in. Peter breathed more slowly. He lost his erection. Every now and then, he'd give Sylar a small peck or his thumb would stroke back and forth across his chest. It was quiet and still and safe-seeming.

Sylar's heart slowed from the racing staccato it had been keeping up. His own breathing eased. He was given the luxury of staying relaxed, rather than worrying if someone might shoot at him or otherwise burst in. Hell, he didn't even have to look at Peter and worry what the other man made of Sylar's own expression. He just got to rest, gather himself, and recover. He had the weirdest fluttery feeling in his gut from how nice it was.

He shifted slightly, the first shreds of self-consciousness coming over him. Peter's hands strayed down Sylar's arms, rubbing his wrists and turning each of them so that Peter, peering over his shoulder, could see if they were all right. It was a proprietary interest, Sylar realized. He belonged, now. Peter had taken him at his word. _Taken_. It was exactly what Sylar had hoped for.


	28. Feet, A Study

**Title: **Feet, a Study  
><strong>Characters: <strong>Peter Petrelli, Sylar  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>None  
><strong>Word count: <strong>1,100  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Peter gets distracted by one of Sylar's body parts. Sylar reaches the wrong conclusion about that.

They were nice feet – long and narrow, but quite nicely arched. The soles looked soft. The whole form was pale with just a hint of yellow showing the thicker areas of callous at the heel and balls of the toes. The toes were straight – none turned in or twisted, and all a little longer than normal. Like most parts of Sylar, they were a bit elongated. Peter wondered if that applied to parts of the man he hadn't seen, but he didn't let his mind wander too far in that direction. No, the feet were safe. Saf_er_, at least. He sighed, admiring them from where he leaned against the kitchen entry, looking at them propped up over the end of Sylar's couch. The man was too long for his own furniture, which Peter found amusing and sort of sad. If there was anywhere someone should fit, it was in their own abode.

He wondered what it would feel like to rub those feet – to touch them, maybe tickle them (was Sylar ticklish?) Not that Peter had a thing for feet, but he really hadn't had much in the way of physical contact. He hadn't thought he'd miss it as much as he had. Volunteering a foot rub was guaranteed to be taken the wrong way, to imply things Peter wasn't ready for. Feet were easier, maybe because they were so far from the face Peter still associated with danger, insult, and hate. Sylar's feet had perpetrated no crimes against him. There were only unfortunate accessories, innocent of intent. Peter smiled a little as the toes wiggled slightly. They looked dexterous, those shifting digits.

Nice circulation. Peter wondered if they'd be cool or warm given the room temperature. They moved again, curling decisively this time. Peter's gaze jerked up to find that Sylar's eyes, previously entirely hidden by his book, were peering at him over the top of it. No telling how long he'd been looking, either! Peter could only imagine, with horror, what sort of absorbed, vapid expression he'd been wearing for Sylar's observation, or what prurient thoughts Sylar must think he was entertaining. He blushed to his roots, face hot with shame. Mortified, he fled into the kitchen, but there was nowhere to go. A moment later, he emerged, heading to the door. "I'm going to go take a walk," he said brusquely, head down. He was out the door fast.

Sylar, still lying on the couch, wiggled his toes again, blinking between them and the shut door. "Huh."

XXX

The tack was a lance of pain as it penetrated the sole of Sylar's foot. "Ow!" he exclaimed without any need to act. Hopping on one foot, he helped himself to the couch.

Peter came to the kitchen entry, looking out in immediate concern. "What is it? What happened?"

"I stepped on something," Sylar said, although that much seemed obvious – at least to him. He held up his injured foot. "Can you see what it is?"

"Of course." Peter came over to the couch, taking up his foot and looking at it. "It's a thumb tack. Hold on. Don't pull it out." He went to get the first aid tote from under the bathroom sink.

"What would happen if I pulled it out?" Sylar asked when the other man returned.

Peter settled himself in, giving the foot a quick examination before opening the tote and getting out what he needed. "Well, nothing much would happen. It's just training. Any punctures are supposed to be left in place until you have a method for controlling the bleeding." Peter delicately and slowly removed the obstruction with one hand, the other immediately holding gauze over the wound. He set the tack on the arm of the couch.

Sylar nudged his foot into Peter's lap and was gratified when Peter cupped his heel with the other hand, still holding the gauze to him. It took an effort for Sylar not to look at him, but he suspected this was critical – the not looking, giving an illusion of privacy, or at least disinterest. Not that Sylar was disinterested at all. No, he wouldn't intentionally step on a thumb tack for just anyone. He could feel Peter brush the dust and dirt from his foot, his fingers warm and gentle against his skin. He took rather a bit longer at it than necessary, but Sylar gloried quietly in every touch. An adhesive bandage was applied. Before Peter could be done, Sylar interrupted, "Could you look at my toes? One of them was ingrown a while back."

"Sure," Peter said, low and subdued. Sylar swung his other foot up to rest on Peter's knee.

Peter looked at it blankly for a moment, before furtive eyes darted to Sylar. He colored again, obviously onto Sylar.

But Sylar had been steady in the face of worse. "It's the big one," he prompted seriously.

Peter was breathing a little too fast, but he looked down obediently, hands moving slowly to the toe in question. He relaxed as he examined it. "I don't see anything wrong with it."

"Okay," Sylar said, sounding perfectly casual, like nothing weird was going on. Guys always checked out each other's feet, right? "Do you mind if I just leave my feet there while I read?" His face was a study in innocence.

"Uh ..." Peter looked down at them for a long moment before shrugging a little with much-less-authentic-looking indifference. "No, sure, that's fine." His hands hovered over the feet uneasily. "But you know, if they're in my lap, I might … "

"Sure, that's fine," Sylar said off-handedly, getting down his book from the shelf over the couch and situating himself. "Whatever you need. 'S fine." He opened his book, put his eyes on the page, and kept them there, letting Peter sort himself out at the other end of the couch.

What seemed like minutes later, one of Peter's hands came down to rest on the top of his foot. A shorter time after that, his other cupped the sole. That was all Peter did – just sit there holding him. Peter slouched in his seat, eyes shut, holding onto another human being like it was a lifeline he'd been too long denied. Sylar eyed him over the top of his book. He hadn't expected _that._ He'd thought he'd stumbled onto some hidden fetish – but no. It was something even more basic. Sylar smiled, settling in. He didn't care. Either way, he was getting the same thing.


	29. It's Not About Nathan

**Title: **It's Not About Nathan  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>None  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>1,100  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter and Sylar discuss if Sylar should (or can) admit that Peter has a right to be angry at him.

"Nathan _mattered_ to me," Peter said very seriously. "We're not going anywhere until you acknowledge that."

Sylar snorted derisively and rolled his eyes. It was a sign of their progress that they were even having this discussion, although the location was a bit odd. They each sat in the loose pea gravel of a playground, reclining against the two-high railroad ties that lined the play-pit. "Nathan was a dick, Peter. You _have_ to admit that."

Peter shook his head staunchly. "This isn't quid pro quo. That has nothing to do with it. _Nothing_." He glared at Sylar for a moment, who ignored him. "You act like I ought to be happy you killed him, like it was clearing the way for me to inherit the entire Petrelli fortune instead of just the half or whatever." He paused there, not sure if he was even in the inheritance any more. In one of Peter's arguments with his father about college, Arthur had threatened to disinherit him. Peter had told him to do it – he didn't want the money anyway. His father had replied, 'Fine,' and that was the end of it, never mentioned again by either of them. Peter had his trust fund, but when his father died, nothing else had come to him. He'd assumed everything went to his mother, but what would happen after she passed? Would it all go to Nathan? Or rather, his sons? Well, Peter didn't care much even now.

"It was a service to all specials everywhere."

Peter still wanted to deck Sylar for saying shit like that, but they'd moved past that. Mostly. Instead he growled in anger and looked at the sky. "_**He**_ was special. How was that a service to him?"

"He was destroying his own life. He's better off dead."

"You don't get to decide that, Sylar!" The heat in Peter's voice was unmistakable.

"Seems like I did," the other man said bluntly.

Snarling, Peter threw a small handful of gravel at him, hard as he could. From an outsider's perspective (and even probably from Sylar's), that was hilarious in how harmless it was, but Sylar knew enough not to ignore stage 2 violence from Peter. Stage 1 was threats and maybe getting in his face. Stage 3 was blows. If he ignored stage 2 pushing, shoving, and throwing things, then stage 3 would swiftly follow until Peter was sure he'd made his point. Sylar recoiled a little, brushing off stray stones from his pants. He kept his eyes down and mouth shut, much as he wanted to say something snarky.

Peter slowly went from poised to get up off his rear end and pummel some sense into his companion to … well, calmer. He took several deep breaths and looked away. It was an emotionally charged topic. "You _don't_ get to decide that," he reiterated through clenched teeth.

Sylar picked at the gravel, selecting an especially round piece. "Peter … I don't mean to be offensive with this," he started, flicking his eyes apologetically up at Peter, who turned at his words to eye him suspiciously. Such a statement was usually followed by something patently insulting. "But of all people, I know better than anyone what kind of person Nathan was."

Peter backed off a little, relieved that Sylar hadn't turned up the tension in the discussion. "That's why we're arguing. You're not getting the _point!_ This isn't about Nathan. It's about _me!_" Sylar stared at him, blinking slowly a few times. From someone else, Peter would have interpreted that as a 'you're stupid' look of condescension. With Sylar that was certainly still a possible meaning, but more on the money was 'I don't understand that', of which Peter was aware.

Growling with frustration, Peter got to his feet and stomped off, kicking rocks out of his way as he went. He heard the dry rustle of Sylar getting to his feet behind him. Peter stalked over to the swings and sat down in one of them, a band of hot plastic supporting him. Too tall by far, he sprawled his legs out so his knees wouldn't be so comically high. He felt like a kid and wondered if his upset was just an immature tantrum. Where was the line between authentic emotions that deserved recognition and juvenile fit-throwing that was best left ignored?

Sylar came over and leaned on the support beam, looking down at him. "I think I get it. You want … your feelings to matter." Sylar picked at the wood of the beam. "And this _isn't_ about Nathan. Or rather, not _just_ about Nathan. Is it?"

"No," he said sullenly, not sure how relevant it was to open the can of worms that made up Peter's past, where failure to acknowledge his opinion on things was routine.

"Okay," Sylar said softly. "I see that now. It's not just about you, either. Everyone … probably had feelings about the people I killed."

"Yeah?" Peter looked up at him, brows drawn together a bit as he processed why the admission wasn't easy for Sylar.

Sylar nodded slowly and then scratched the back of his neck. "Well, um, okay. Yeah. I agree that people … have feelings."

"Yeah, but do you recognize that they're legitimate? That it's okay for them to feel that way?"

A hopeless half smile lifted part of Sylar's mouth. He gave a hollow laugh. "They want to kill me, Peter." He gave Peter a guarded, haunted look. "So do you."

"You know, Sylar, sometimes what I want to kill you over is that you don't admit I have a right to be upset. That by itself is _**huge**_."

Sylar picked nervously at the wood some more, staring off into the distance with a sad, somewhat fearful expression.

Peter knew the other man had to be looking down the barrel of a gun, the horror of having to admit that everyone who was angry at him had a right to be that way. Sylar was right – it was a far bigger admission than just Nathan, and Peter hadn't seen it that way to start with. He stood up. This was too big an issue to demand an answer right away. "Hey. We're not going anywhere anyway, so how about you give me a hand on adjusting the chains on this swing so I can actually use the damn thing."

"Like a kid?" Sylar said with a short, nervous laugh. But regardless, he started appraising the situation with the chains, trying to see how to move it up.

"Yeah, like a little kid," Peter said. "Might as well. You won't tattle on me, will you?"

Sylar gave him a surprised stare, then smiled warmly, letting himself be distracted and appreciating the off-hand trust. "No, of course not."


	30. User Friendly, Friendly Use

**Title: **User Friendly, Friendly Use  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar, Peter  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Allusions to coerced sex  
><strong>Word count:<strong> 2,700  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Dual-POV. Sylar never imagined anyone could fall in love with him. / Peter never imagined he could fall in love with Sylar.

Sylar was happy with letting Peter use him; glad of it. Everyone he'd ever met had fallen neatly into two categories – those who didn't notice him and those who wanted to use him. It had taken a long time for Peter to notice him as anything other than the reviled and hated murderer of his brother. But loneliness had pressed down heavily on Peter Petrelli and Sylar's methodical, persistent efforts to seduce him had finally succeeded. This was what Sylar knew how to do – find a need that someone else had, and fill it. Or in this case, letting Peter fill him.

Peter was a good lover as far as Sylar could tell. He was attentive. He was gentle. He was passionate and vigorous with terrific stamina. Sylar didn't always know how Peter wanted him to respond to the exquisite stimulation he was given. He did his best. He didn't want to wear out his welcome in Peter's bed, which Sylar shared all the time now. That was how it started, but the chaste sleeping together after a liquor-fueled bender didn't last a night before Sylar pressed his lean body against Peter's warm one and made his availability and willingness known. Some lotion, a few amorous strokes, and some urging of his sleepy bed partner had been all it took. The sex wasn't as bad as he'd expected it to be.

Left to the frequency of Peter's desire (which Sylar did not disturb), Peter fucked him twice a day, morning and night. He liked beds, apparently. Sylar assumed it was due to their convenience. Peter came to be affectionate – that was something that had grown slowly over days and weeks. Increasingly, Peter would pepper him with kisses and nuzzle against him. He picked up the habit of stroking Sylar's skin and straightening the hairs on his forearms and brows. He started touching Sylar's face softly as he kissed him … the kissing had changed a lot. Initially it had been an achingly sweet pressing of lips on his shoulders as Sylar was taken from behind, but it had gradually changed to passionate probing in missionary as Peter thrust inside of him. Maybe it was a claiming. Because, Sylar thought, it couldn't be anything more, could it?

Sometimes, before one of their carnal episodes, but after Sylar would indicate his readiness with strokes and touches, Peter would hug him. That would be it – Peter's cheek to Sylar's, arms around him tightly, body pressed to his, in a single, firm embrace that would last for long seconds while Sylar lay still. Sylar wondered if it was some kind of emotional orgasm, or climax, or whatever. Because afterward, Peter would act a lot like he did after fucking – he'd snuggle and stroke and give him small pecking kisses and rub his nose on Sylar's. Sometimes he'd put his forehead against Sylar's and stare into his eyes … almost like Sylar was really important to him. Sylar would stare back and give enough kisses in return that Peter saw whatever signal he was looking for. Then Peter would fuck him.

They conducted the arrangement almost entirely without speaking of it. Peter had tried talking at first, with fumbling, embarrassed stutterings the morning of that first coupling, claiming he had been so asleep and possibly still drunk he hadn't realized who or what he was doing. It was grossly offensive. Peter seemed to be trying to find some way of saying Sylar had taken advantage of him, but that was ridiculous – just another Petrelli excuse, probably fueled by shame for his lusts towards a kinslayer. Sylar didn't want to hear it and had shut him down viciously. It didn't stop Peter from accepting him into his bed that night, which cemented which category Peter fell into – just another user.

Yet Peter wasn't anything like the others. As time passed, Peter went out of his way to please him. He found the little things he could do to Sylar during sex that made him moan, call out, or shudder. Peter did more of those, repeating them endlessly with inventive variations that showed he was really thinking about Sylar's pleasure. Maybe Peter's ego couldn't be properly stroked until his partner was quivering in satisfaction. That was probably it. It probably also explained the craving Sylar was developing for the man and the strange feelings in his gut when he saw him. They were merely the product of endorphins, a simple, chemically-induced, conditioned response. Like the hard-on he sprouted at the most inappropriate times if he let his mind wander to what Peter might want to use him for that night. Just conditioning.

It was nice conditioning, though. Peter certainly seemed aware of it, because he started lacing their normal, day-to-day interactions with enough sexual innuendo that Sylar could barely wait for evening. It was like Peter got off on seeing Sylar in need. Sylar was tempted, teased, and tortured. Even though Peter would grant him deliverance at the end of the day, the long wait seemed cruel and unnecessary. After all, Peter knew Sylar would allow him at any time, no matter what. So why provoke him and not carry through? Cruelty. Meanness. Arrogance. He was being mistreated. It was all Sylar could imagine. His resentment grew.

Peter felt him up after lunch one day in his apartment, stroked him up and down and caressed his groin. Sylar's arousal was perfectly clear. Peter even remarked on it, then left him wanting with a taunt and a sigh about how long it was until night. Sylar threatened him. Peter laughed, which infuriated him, and told him he didn't have to wait if he didn't want to - the bedroom was only steps away. When Sylar grabbed him and shoved him into the room and onto the bed, Peter didn't resist. He even helped in getting off his clothes and had the foresight to grab at the lube.

Sylar thought it would have served the asshole right to have skipped lube altogether, but he'd never fucked anyone before and Peter always used it, so he assumed it was necessary. Apparently, he didn't use enough, because the sounds Peter made once Sylar rammed inside of him were pained. Sylar knew he was being rough, reveling in every struggling gasp and white-knuckled twitch. He shoved Peter's face further into the pillow briefly, knowing that much pressure would suffocate him. The murderousness of his impulses woke Sylar up. Peter had never done this sort of thing to him. Peter had never fucked him while he made sounds of hurting. On the other hand, Peter fucking him had never _hurt_. That twisting feeling in his gut came back and he eased his actions. He pulled out, used more lube, and rolled Peter over onto his back so Sylar could see his face. Peter was just as cooperative as before, but his expression was hesitant and wary, like things were out of his control and he was hoping this would turn out okay.

Sylar took him again, much more gently. Sylar kissed him, like Peter had kissed him when they used this position, and Peter kissed back. Peter wound his arms around him and pulled him close, legs wrapping around him in a hug just like the ones he'd given so much more platonically before. Sylar's stomach fluttered and lurched as he realized that similarity and the certainty – the complete and unmistakable certainty – that Peter was emotionally involved with him. All those little gestures and efforts and indications …

For the first time, Sylar realized he wasn't being used like he'd thought he was. He'd been … wrong. Something else was happening. Sylar didn't understand it, but he didn't deny it. He just left it unlabeled to surge around inside of him, a glowing, warm, tingling feeling that intensified with every pleased moan and helplessly happy whimper Peter made. He brought Peter off with his hand between them just as Peter had serviced him so many times. Sylar came moments later, breathless and panting – but that feeling inside of him didn't fade. Peter stroked his hair out of his face and blew across his chest to cool him. Peter was happy, despite the rough start. He was … loving.

And there it was – the label Sylar had been looking for. Peter put his forehead to Sylar's, hugging him tight and staring into his eyes. _In love with me_, Sylar thought, his heart melting. Somewhere along the line, it had stopped being 'use' and started being love.

* * *

><p>For a long time, Peter blamed himself. He should have never gotten into the habit of drinking with Sylar. It had started as a beer or two after dinner and progressed into mixed drinks. At the time, it seemed like 'why not?' They even joked about how there weren't any cars. Peter told Sylar things while loosened up with alcohol that he would have never been able to confess to with his defenses up. His defenses were never more down than when he came to himself to realize that he was back in his apartment, fucking Sylar.<p>

Peter didn't finish, didn't give Sylar a reach around, nothing. He just stopped, a bit dumbfounded by the whole thing. He could remember coming home, Sylar in tow and vaguely remembered nonchalantly telling Sylar 'sure, go ahead' when the other man asked if he could sleep over. (It seemed like a harmless thing at the time …) But between sharing a bed with a friend and being intimately involved with them was a huge gulf, as huge as the gap in Peter's memory. Sylar seemed alert enough, which was disturbing and made Peter suspicious that he'd been set up.

They'd fought over it. Hungover and feeling like crap, Peter hadn't been able to defend himself – it had been his dick in Sylar's ass, after all. What stung the most was it wasn't like sex with Sylar wasn't something Peter had fantasized about, dreamed about, even sort of been trying to figure out a moral way that he could get away with it. Yet here it was, a done deal. There was no way he could un-fuck the situation, made all the worse by Sylar's insinuation that Peter was his first. Then Sylar wouldn't talk about it, getting harsh and mean about it. They parted ways, both angry at each other and no doubt both feeling quite entrenched in their positions.

By evening, the anger had faded a little and Peter was feeling guilty. When Sylar knocked, Peter opened the door and leaned on the frame, eyeing him. Sylar didn't look angry anymore, either. He looked needy, scared, and vulnerable. Peter thought about it from Sylar's point of view – he'd gotten drunk with a guy, been invited to sleep with him, fooled around and got badly sexed for what was (probably) his first time, then was rejected, accused of what looked a lot like rape, and kicked out. All in a situation where Sylar couldn't just get on with his life, where he had no other options, no life to get on with. Sylar could no more un-fuck things than Peter could. When they'd been drinking, Sylar had shared some of his life as well. So much of it was made of suck. Peter knew how that felt.

After what seemed like an entire minute, or maybe two, where they stood in absolute silence, Peter nudged the door the rest of the way open with his foot and gestured for Sylar to come inside. They hardly spoke at all, other than the most strained of small talk. Peter pointedly had water, having already poured out every drop of alcohol in the apartment. When he announced he was going to bed, he didn't accompany it with any mention that Sylar needed to go home. He was unsurprised when the man meekly followed him to bed. Peter tried to talk and was shushed. Instead, hands slid across his skin, an erotic contact that was more intoxicating than any liquor would ever be.

Maybe not everything in Sylar's life had to turn to blood and ashes. Peter kissed him softly, swallowed his misgivings, and gave it a chance. It was hard at first, to get over himself, get past the past and the thoughts of besmirching Nathan's memory, but Peter could feel himself winning through bit by bit, one touch at a time. He resolutely refused to turn Sylar away – morning and night, if Sylar showed interest, Peter returned it. Sylar was alive and here and could hurt. Every now and then, Peter would hug him tightly and remember that – this man was human and fragile, he was being kind and generous, they needed each other.

Sylar became happy. He blossomed. Peter watched over the days and weeks as the man relaxed and opened up. The set of his shoulders eased and the glowers ended. He laughed more. He even dabbled in being playful. The deadly sarcasm transformed into a wicked sense of humor. And Sylar, ever the bad boy, stole Peter's heart. Peter didn't realize it until one day when Sylar made a happy twirl of the sort Peter had seen him do long ago in an impossible future. It took Peter's breath away, which seemed so silly that Peter stopped to think about how he was feeling. Yes – somehow, he'd fallen for his so-called enemy and found love in the unlikeliest places.

Now all he had to do was get Sylar to admit to wanting him. Because he did, of that Peter was confident, and wanting him might be the start of loving him back. He hatched a stupid plan, because Peter had never been good at planning. Peter took to teasing him, giving little reminders of their times and hoping Sylar would admit to his obvious desires. The anticipation made the man more assertive in bed, even though it seemed to be making him grouchy out of it. Then it very nearly went terribly wrong. What looked like it would be rough, passionate sex turned into Sylar breaching him, unprepared, and shoving him hard into the pillow Peter was trying to use to muffle himself. Peter hadn't resisted the positioning and didn't know what to do about what was happening … but Sylar stopped, as though it finally got through his head that this was not going well.

They changed position to face-to-face and this time it was tender love-making instead of being fucked much harder than Peter liked. They kissed passionately. Peter pulled him in, winding himself around the man and hugging him tight, trusting Sylar to treat him right. Powerful, flexing thrusts filled him over and over. They grappled as one until he came in an overflow of fulfilled desire. Peter stroked Sylar's face and cooled them both, tending to him with dutiful affection, charmed by his quirky and largely mute lover. They pressed foreheads, staring into one another's eyes for a long moment, truly in sync.

Peter didn't blame himself anymore. If anything, he gave his heart credit for seeing something that his brain had refused to believe existed. Speaking of things his brain had done badly – this 'plan' of his. Stupid. Why try to get Sylar to say something Peter himself had not yet voiced? "I love you," he said earnestly, smiling at the shocked expression that greeted his words.


	31. Safe At Home Drabble

"You feel safe here," Peter said, looking around Sylar's apartment.

As it wasn't a question, Sylar didn't answer.

Peter shrugged a shoulder. "I haven't felt safe anywhere since … I don't know when." He looked around again, thinking of the level of vigilance Peter had had over the last several years and even then, he'd still been attacked in his apartment and at work both. 'Safe' had become a foreign concept, unable to trust even those he loved. "I suppose, all alone, there's no one to hurt you ..."

"Until recently," Sylar observed.

Peter swallowed, looking down unhappily. "Sorry, man."


	32. Sounds of Sylar

**Title: **Sounds of Sylar  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter Petrelli, Sylar (platonic)  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>None  
><strong>Word count: <strong>220  
><strong>Setting: <strong>The Wall  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Song-fic based on "Sounds of Silence" by Simon & Garfunkel, inspired by "Sounds of Cylons"**  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Hello Sylar, my future friend<br>I've come to ask for help again  
>Because a vision softly creeping<br>Left its seeds while I was sleeping  
>And the vision that was planted in my brain<br>Still remains  
>Emma's savior, is Sylar<p>

In your restless dream I walked alone  
>Narrow streets of paving stones<br>Calling out as I looked for you  
>I hoped the dream I'd had was really true<br>When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a brilliant light  
>And there you were<br>I'd found the soul of Sylar

But first this truth that I must face  
>All these acts that mean disgrace<br>People killed without remorse  
>People murdered without recourse<br>People like my brother who I'll never see  
>You took from me<br>Why would you help me, Sylar?

My heart is full of painful doubt  
>Maybe I shouldn't let you out<br>I hear your words of apology  
>And although they ring with sincerity<br>It is hard for me to believe you have changed  
>Cold revenge<br>It's not your fate, Sylar

And so I learned to forgive  
>The life that you had lived<br>The person that you used to be  
>Was not the person I now could see<br>And we turned our hammers to bringing down those high brick walls  
>Watch them fall<br>Heroes together, me and Sylar


	33. The Metaphorical Hammer

**Title:** The Metaphorical Hammer  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Rating: <strong>NC-17  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Explicit sexual content  
><strong>Word count:<strong> 1,800  
><strong>Setting: <strong>The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter starts off wanting nothing to do with Sylar; ends wanting to do nothing without him. Or, alternately, it's the story of how Sylar worms his way into Peter's life, bed, and heart.  
><strong>Notes: <strong>Inspired by one line of means2bhuman's in MBU. She'll know which one.

* * *

><p>It started with hanging out together. At first, upon finding himself equally trapped in the mental prison, Peter had gone off on his own, with no desire to keep company with the man he'd come here to rescue. Rescue was impossible, so there was no reason to interact further with his brother's killer. Peter kept to himself for a very long time, giving only passing greetings and being minimally polite.<p>

Sylar tolerated that for a while, but it soon became apparent he was tracking Peter down and keeping him in sight even if he wasn't always watching. Peter could have avoided him, but that seemed childish, so he just ignored instead. Mere presence evolved quickly into proximity as Sylar would bring his book or project closer until they were in conversational range. Small talk was next – a few polite words that usually dead-ended in awkward silences, but that didn't keep Sylar from trying. Days passed and the silence retreated in the face of quiet talk.

Peter warmed to his companion over days and weeks. He had an audience. Sylar was a good listener. If the man avoided answering a lot of Peter's questions, it didn't bother Peter too much. A part of him didn't want to know what happened to make a person into the killer Sylar had become. It was strange enough to see him as friendly and to find himself used to seeing Sylar waiting for him outside his apartment building.

'Outside' – that didn't last either. One day, Peter needed to go upstairs to fetch something from his room and Sylar tagged along with him, continuing their conversation. Peter didn't want Sylar to know exactly which apartment he slept in, but he couldn't bring himself to be rude about it. It was no big deal, right?

A couple days later, Sylar knocked when Peter slept in, stating so innocently that he wasn't sure if Peter had already left and so he just wanted to check … Well, the cat was out of the bag as to where Peter slept, of course. But Peter probably shouldn't have invited him in for breakfast. They'd eaten together more than a hundred times by now so it seemed routine to ask him in – just like Sylar bringing breakfast to Peter's apartment became the new norm.

For evenings, sometimes they went to Sylar's, sometimes to Peter's, sometimes they parted ways out in the street but that became more and more rare. Sylar kept coming up with one thing after another as the hour grew late, prolonging their stays until Peter was drowsy and ready to drop. An offer of Sylar's couch was turned down and Peter would stagger back to his place. One day of especially hard play in the park was followed by a long evening in Peter's apartment recounting the camping trips of Peter's youth. When he finally turned in, he assumed Sylar would let himself out. The next morning, there the guy was, curled up on his couch under a freaking bath towel.

Sylar had spoken many times about his loneliness, his lack of friends, his desire for a connection. Peter didn't have the heart to kick him out. One couch was much like another, Peter decided, and if Sylar wanted to crash here, it wasn't a problem. Weird, yes, but not worth making a fuss over.

It was only a matter of time until one of Sylar's nightmares disturbed Peter's sleep. Half-awake, Peter stumbled into the living room to see Sylar grappling with his demons, twitching and whimpering in distressed slumber. Peter woke him and Sylar clung to Peter's forearm, tearfully confessing that if he could just hear Peter breathing, that would be enough to keep the terrors away. He just needed to know someone was with him. Would Peter stay?

A tear-streaked face, sad and pitiable, looked up at him beseechingly in the half-light of the moon that leaked in from the living room window. Peter was tired, sleepy, and deeply affected by Sylar's plea. The man was stripped of his defenses in addition to his powers. He was as vulnerable as a child. But Peter didn't want to sit beside the couch to help him sleep. He had a king-sized bed, after all. Maybe if Peter's thinking hadn't been so muddled by sleep he could have suggested something different, but instead of Peter sitting up with him, Sylar was climbing into his bed a few minutes later.

The next morning, drawn by the warmth of another body and a desire for intimacy Peter hadn't had in what seemed like years, Peter woke to find himself on Sylar's side of the bed, snuggling up to the other man's back. It was alarming, but if Sylar minded, he didn't let on. Far as Peter knew, he didn't even wake. After that, a pillow wall was erected between them (because of course Sylar took it as a given that Peter's one-time exception was an open invitation to sleep with him).

Living together brought new closeness. They settled the order of who used the bathroom first and whether it was acceptable to leave out one's toothbrush on the side of the sink. Sylar brought over his hair products because he was particular and didn't care for Peter's. The arguments were never bitter and Peter usually won them. He had the hammer, after all - he could kick Sylar out of his life if he was too much of a pain in the ass. They both knew that, even if it wasn't mentioned.

Peter wouldn't admit to having had a change of heart, but the pillow wall was slowly crumbling. The bed was big enough that they both had plenty of space with it there, but he didn't like it. He'd roll over in the night and find it separating him from what he wanted, and roll back with frustration and anger at himself. Gradually, there were fewer pillows until finally, there was just one. It didn't surprise either of them that Peter woke up the next morning with his arm snugged around Sylar's waist and his face burrowed against the other man's t-shirt-clad back. Peter removed himself carefully – super awkward. Sylar had never looked so pleased.

The next night, Peter resolutely put up the entire pillow barrier as Sylar set aside his house shoes on the other side of the bed. Sylar climbed in and with a grim, determined expression, tossed every one of them off the bed. He glared at Peter's shocked face, and then laid down, pulling the covers up and tucking himself in like he'd done nothing at all strange or defiant. Peter stared after the pillows, now heaped haphazardly near the door, then meekly slipped under the blankets himself. He didn't wait until morning to find Sylar in the big bed and hug him close, although he did at least wait until he could convince himself Sylar was probably asleep. A few nights later, he'd stopped doing even that.

Peter's usual sleep position was spooning behind the other man. Despite Sylar's height making him a better choice for big spoon, Peter claimed that for himself and would nudge Sylar to where he wanted him when the other man tried to sprawl some other way. Sylar didn't seem to mind. He'd been right about hearing Peter breathe – there were no more nightmares. It was Peter who woke him, not a bad dream, with Peter's erection pressed against his buttock and rocking slowly against him. Sylar turned to face him and when Peter woke, shushed his frantic apologies with a few words and a firm hand to his groin. Peter's tongue stilled; Sylar's hand did not.

They didn't speak of it in the morning, nor the next night when it happened again. The morning after that, Peter was so hard and aching that he could barely stand it, guiding Sylar's hand to him and rutting against him noisily. When Sylar retired to the bathroom afterward, Peter waited until he heard the shower kick on before joining him. He went to his knees under the spray and returned the favor.

It was just a thing they did, but they did it _a lot_. For a while it was just in the bed, but then a flirty word and an invitation and they were doing it in a booth at an empty restaurant, against a post office box on the street, bent over a pool table with the billiard balls scattered to the sides … Peter had started with ass play early on, a few spit-slicked fingers probing gently while he swallowed Sylar's cock. It was on the pool table where he finally graduated to fucking Sylar's ass. Probably a poor choice of location and he should have talked about it more beforehand. Not that they ever talked much about what they were doing with each other.

There was a little blood; Peter had apparently gone too fast and Sylar hadn't known enough to tell him when to take it easy. Peter started to freak out; Sylar grabbed him and jerked him close, saying words that seared Peter's ears to hear them: "It's okay. I don't matter. You're happy. That's all that I care about. I'll be fine. It's okay, Peter. It's okay."

Peter pulled away, staring into Sylar's sad eyes, so vulnerable once more, but as a man and not a child. Numbly, he cleaned Sylar with paper towels. It was only a very small fissure and would be healed in a matter of days. Peter tidied up. They both righted their clothes just like normal. But unlike normal, Peter stepped over to Sylar and turned the man's elegant, expressive face to his own. He drew him in for something long overdue – their first kiss. Sylar whimpered, melting into it, and Peter wrapped his arms around him, holding him tight.

Subtly, their conversations turned and shifted. It was Peter listening to Sylar and now he didn't settle for evasions. He wanted to _know_. Difficult as the revelations were, Peter drank them in until he understood. He was the one following Sylar, asking the taller man where to go and what they should do for the afternoon. Sometimes Peter ended up sleeping on Sylar's couch until Sylar suggested they rearrange the furniture and get at least a double bed into his apartment. Happy days and satisfied nights blurred by until Sylar finally asked, "Why are you doing all of this? You don't have to."

Peter took a deep breath, feeling the butterflies riot in his stomach as he contemplated taking a plunge. The time was right. "Because you matter to me. I love you."

The wall never stood a chance. Peter still had that hammer, but he was never going to use it on Sylar.


	34. Private Messaging

Sylar rubbed his ass back and forth against Peter's groin from where they lay side-by-side in the bed. It didn't take long to get the sleeping man's attention. Peter's hands gripped his hips, holding him still for a moment while Peter oriented to what was going on. _Good,_ Sylar thought. _I won't have to touch him this way._ He moved up and down slightly, shifting back and forward in a crude simulation of sex. He could feel Peter's erection hardening. The man was finally getting the message.

The first time Sylar had tried this, after wheedling his way into Peter's bed by a mix of persistence, stealth, and subterfuge, Peter hadn't reacted well. In fact, he'd been rather combative about the whole thing, despite Sylar's insistence that his body was available for Peter's needs whenever and however Peter might want it. That Peter had demurred just demonstrated that he needed to be shown, not told. Peter Petrelli was a man of action, after all, despite his attempts to put words to things that were so visceral as to be beyond articulation.

The second time had gone much better, even if Peter had acted like a scalded cat afterward – guilty and sullen by turns. He'd been asleep through a lot more of it that time, which probably had a lot to do with it. Sylar assumed Peter's act was due to the shock of dreaming of someone else and waking to find himself disappointed. But Peter had still finished, so it couldn't have been that bad.

Now, the third time, Peter was awake nearly from the start. That made it more dangerous and all the more sweet when Peter adjusted himself to line up with Sylar's crack and started moving with him. Penetration was a low risk. They were both wearing boxers and t-shirts – Peter because that was what he wore and Sylar because that was what Peter wore. He'd been working hard to adopt Peter's habits as his own, an effort that Peter seemed not to appreciate as much he should (the comment about being 'creepy' was especially uncalled for).

But Peter was adjusting. Lord knew he'd had to adjust to worse and stranger as a Petrelli. The mind games from the likes of Angela and Arthur made Sylar's honest desire to sate Peter's appetite seem like small potatoes. No, Sylar was showing Peter how much better it could be if he would only reach out and take what he wanted. It had always worked for Sylar, after all.

Peter's muscular thighs flexed, sliding his shaft along Sylar's crack, the thin material of the boxers doubled between them as a protection Sylar still felt he needed. Of course Peter could take whatever he wanted, but Sylar found comfort in how that barrier had yet to be stripped from him. Peter shifted down, his loins cupping Sylar's with such delicious warmth that Sylar made a slight noise of pleasure. He cut it off fast, biting his lip.

"No," Peter murmured. "Let me hear you. It helps me to know you're enjoying this."

_**You're**__ the one enjoying this. I'm just helping you. But fine, I'll help you enjoy it._ Sylar didn't answer in words, but let his mouth open to pant noisily against the pillow. Sylar canted his hips up, letting Peter's cock nudge deeper in his cleft. He let his eyes roll upward as he imagined what it would be like to have that fleshy rod pulsing inside of him, filling him up. It was going to happen, they just hadn't gotten there yet. Once Peter realized how much was on offer, he'd want that, too, Sylar knew. He groaned as he felt Peter's fingers clench into his hips to pull him back into each thrust. The man's cock was rock hard by now, leaving damp spots where precome was wetting the fabric.

"Oh yeah," Sylar purred, moving in rhythmic counterpoint. This was so good, to have someone touching him, playing with him, and enjoying being with him. It soothed something itchy deep inside him to know that Peter was getting off on him. He was pleasing to someone and that was such a rush.

Peter leaned forward to nip him over one shoulder blade, making Sylar's breath catch and his uppermost arm reach back to grab Peter's ass, fingers digging in like talons. Peter growled and responded to the touch, rolling him over slightly and pushing into him harder and faster, opening him up and topping him more literally. Sylar's whole body was being jogged by the power Peter packed into those pumping buttocks. He could hear Peter's breathing speeding up and shivered to feel bites and kisses delivered along his back. That was new – and very, very arousing.

Also new was the hand Peter slid under his shirt and around his waist, hugging him close as he changed tempo to unremitting, hard grinding. Fingers sifted through his belly hair and drifted downward, leaving Sylar squirming in ambivalent uncertainty. Peter had never touched him before – not awake and purposefully. His purpose was undeniable now. Fingers breached his boxers, letting in a bit of cool air and a questing hand. Sylar quivered, muscles drawing and flexing involuntarily. What flimsy protection he had was being bypassed. He breathed more shallowly, pressing his forehead into the pillow.

"Easy, easy," Peter crooned against his skin, still shoving slowly against his rear, rubbing his own dick up and down the valley of Sylar's glutes. Peter's hand found Sylar's penis aching in unrelieved need. He hadn't orgasmed either time before. The first was brought to an early halt; the second Peter had bailed as soon as he'd finished. Not that Sylar had expected any attention. Even now, with Peter beginning to stroke up and down him, it seemed unbelievable. Sylar's eyelids fluttered with the sensation of a foreign touch handling him so intimately and carefully. It felt incredible. He wasn't being hurt, either. He'd never had this. Ever. He'd fucked, but his partners did not get off on giving him a hand-job and so he'd never gotten one. _Does Peter get off on this?_

If his sounds and the renewed mouthiness were any indication, the answer was yes. Peter surged against him in time with the tugging and squeezing of his prick. Sylar felt orgasm rising through him faster than he'd thought possible, Peter's mere touch driving him wild. Mouth wide, he felt his limbs stiffen as his breathing became gasps. Sensing it, Peter pressed into him harder, pushing him into the mattress as he humped on top of him, biting his back hard enough to make Sylar arch upwards. That was going to leave a mark. Sylar's only regret was that it would be difficult to see it later. It felt like fire and light was sparking through him all at once, coiling into his groin to hang there, burning in his nuts before finally gushing outward in release.

Sylar whimpered, feeling completely and utterly whipped, dominated, something. _He brought me off. He … he brought me off. Him. He did it. He touched me. He did that … why? Oh my God. Why? Why would he? Does he care? He … _His mind whirled, sluggish now as aftershocks spread through him, endorphins clouding his thinking. Peter hugged him close with one hand while his other had shifted from Sylar's dick to his own, working himself with short, hard jerks punctuated by unashamed noises of pleasure. A few moments later, there was more than precome wetting his back.

Peter didn't seem to care in the least about the grossness of that. He settled in next to Sylar's side, pulling up the long-since dislodged blankets, and wrapping himself around Sylar as much as possible. He gave tender pecks to the middle of Sylar's back, then rested his forehead against the spot. Sylar, mind spinning at how incomprehensibly well this had gone, didn't dare to move as the other man drifted back into slumber. Peter had gotten the message, all right.


	35. Not Quite A Smack

**Title: **Not Quite a Smack  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar, Peter Petrelli  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Word count:<strong> 375  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sylar tries to land an air-kiss on Peter's hair and almost gets his ass kicked for it.

The kiss popped in the air, a good inch from Sylar's target – the back Peter's head. Not only did he miss, but his lips smacked a lot more than he'd intended, something that didn't go unheard only inches from Peter's ears. Sylar jerked back, but he wasn't fast enough to dodge when Peter spun and lashed out, grabbing the front of his shirt just under his collarbone. Sylar didn't bother trying to put his hands up to surrender or block. He never tried that and he wasn't sure why he didn't have that so-basic instinct – he just didn't. Instead, he stiffened and stood taller, eyes widening just a little as he waited for the blow to fall.

Peter had probably seen Sylar's fear response often enough now to read it, not that it mattered. No, there just weren't many good excuses for kissing at another guy's hair when he said something cute and adorable and completely unintentionally so. He assumed Peter would take it as mocking. Sylar sure as hell would, were their positions reversed, and a beat-down would just as certainly be on the menu. The hand tightened, Peter's other swung back in a fist for wind-up. Sylar saw it happening in slow motion, but instead of things speeding up as they usually did, they went the other direction to stop at a moment of immobility for both of them. Peter's eyes flitted back and forth between Sylar's. He looked uncertain. Sylar lifted his brows slightly and gave a very small, nervous smile.

Peter's grip shifted again. _Here it comes – the smile was stupid. Now he's sure you were making fun of him._ But instead of swinging the other fist, a finger – index or middle, hard to tell – scratched back and forth across the side of his chest next to where Peter still held his shirt with the rest of his grip. Sylar swallowed and blinked. _What the hell?_

He was released, and without the expected shove that would force him to catch his balance and express Peter's disgust with him. Peter whirled and stalked off, leaving Sylar standing there unharmed, touching his chest speculatively. A roguish grin split his face a moment later.


	36. Bedding Down

Peter settled into bed. _Christmas Day. What a weird one._ It had been strange enough to mostly keep his mind off the underlying perversity of where, how, and who he was spending it with. His mind wasn't racing nervously, but it was still firing along at a waking pace, refusing to stop thinking about things, even while he knew he ought to sleep.

He turned his attention to a game he liked to play with himself, where he thought about what he'd do with a particular ability. Not that he constrained himself to realistic endeavors – it was just daydreaming and mind-play without any of the stodgy strategic planning his father would have approved of. No, this was 'staring out the window', 'head lost in the clouds', 'rose-colored glasses' dreaming that hooked up with Peter's love of heroes and the heroic. _What would I do if I could fly? What if I had super-strength? What if I could turn invisible? _He paused on that one, thinking it over. _I think I'd go stop terrorists from making dirty bombs and blowing up New York City. Because it would be terrorists and not people like me who'd be blowing the place up. I'd eavesdrop on their plans and follow them back to their secret lair in some closed-off subway tunnel, then I'd race back to tell the cops and even lead them there. Everyone would cheer because I'd been the one to- Wait, what was that?_

He listened._ Is Sylar choking out there? _Peter threw off the blankets and levered himself out of bed to check on his flatmate. He padded to the door, cracking it quietly. Outside, in the main part of the apartment, it was silent. _But, you know, if he's really choking, he wouldn't necessarily be making any noise. He's probably just having another bad dream. _He slowly swept open the door and snuck over to Sylar's, which stood ajar.

There was enough light filtering dimly through the windows from the starry sky outside that he could make out where Sylar lay and some of the details of his hunched posture. _Must have been a dream. But do I wake him if it's over now?_ Just then, Sylar's shoulders shook and a choked-off sob escaped him – the same sound Peter had heard earlier. That the guy was trying to keep himself from making any noise tore at Peter's heart, not to mention the crying itself.

He knew what it was about. Yeah, it could have been because of a dream, but Peter knew it wasn't. He knew with perfect certainty that the quiet grieving was because he'd refused to sleep in the same room with Sylar. It was such a stupid thing for a sane, mature adult to be fixated on. Peter had trouble even figuring out _why_ Sylar was so desirous of the proximity. Yeah, he'd been lonely and being alone was his biggest fear, but sleeping in different rooms was pretty normal behavior for people who could barely stand each other. It was amazing enough that Sylar had managed to maneuver Peter into sharing an apartment when he had the whole rest of the world to be in. Yet when Peter had resolutely stalked off to the other bedroom earlier that evening, he'd caught a little of Sylar's expression. That was why he was sure of why the man was crying now.

Peter didn't feel guilty about it; he didn't see that he'd done anything wrong in asserting his own boundaries. Sylar did not have a right to his presence, attention, or snores. Even if granting that last was harmless and free, it was still something of Peter's to grant or not. A lack of guilt didn't mean, though, that he was unmoved by the man's stifled weeping. Peter understood disappointment and the bitterness of having something you treasured and wanted and hoped for taken away. He understood the aching need in Sylar's heart for some proof the world had not abandoned him, especially during sleep - the most vulnerable and defenseless period a person inevitably had. Peter had slept in a chair next to Sylar's bed the night before, giving him something of what he wanted, but it had been too cramped for Peter to do it again.

He straightened from his stealthy skulking and walked to the bed, hearing the sudden hitching gasp when Sylar heard his approach. Utter silence reigned after that as Sylar held his breath. Peter sat on the edge of the bed, extending his right hand to touch the man on the left shoulder. "Hey," Peter said very softly, almost tenderly. Asking if he was okay was asinine. Asking why he was crying seemed similarly pointless – the reason was glaringly obvious. Peter sighed and rubbed gently, offering, "Do you want a hug?"

He suspected his tone of voice had a lot to do with Sylar's reaction. It was quiet and low, the same inflection a mother might use to tell a bedtime story to a beloved child. Sylar didn't answer, but he did start breathing again, then turned to look at Peter warily, his features lost in faint shadow from the windows. "Come here," Peter soothed. "It's okay."

Sylar swallowed noisily, shifted and sat up. He gave Peter an incredibly awkward, shallow hug, as if afraid of imposing too much. Peter snaked his arms around the man in a slow, steady fashion, feeling along for any sign that what he was doing was unwelcome. Sylar shuddered, but it was a strangled sob of relief and not rejection. Peter wrapped himself around him and hugged him tight, not letting go as seconds and then minutes floated by, measured out by the ticking clock on the night stand – something Peter had gotten him, the only gift that had been given. Maybe it was a house-warming present; maybe it was just a formality. Peter wasn't able yet to do more; Sylar was still too damaged to even recognize the small gesture. But they were getting there. Slowly, gradually, as the sniffling breaths returned to normal, Sylar let his hands inch around Peter's back until they crossed the spine heading in different directions, letting his long limbs settle into a mirror image of Peter's. Peter thought about how Sylar wasn't even sure how to hug.

Peter stroked up and down Sylar's back, gently comforting the man who had taken his brother such a short time before. Sylar's humanity and fragility showed itself in a multitude of ways. Peter couldn't ignore them, murderer or not. At long last, Sylar quietly and meekly laid his head on Peter's shoulder, letting the tension flow out of him. He was very warm, hot from getting worked up, and had that aroma of sleep and restfulness that Peter adored on people. "It's going to be okay, Sylar," he murmured. "It's going to be okay." Sylar sniffed again, giving him a squeeze and the slightest shake of his head. But he didn't actually disagree.

"You want me to sleep with you?" Peter offered spontaneously because it was his to offer. Sylar wasn't expecting or demanding that Peter be with him; he was just sad that he wasn't. And that – that, made Peter want to help.

Another noisy swallow, a shallow breath, and Sylar whispered, "Yes," like he couldn't believe it might happen.

"Kay," Peter said, ego immensely stroked by Sylar's astonishment. "I'll be right back," Peter murmured, getting to his feet and going for the pillows off the guest room bed. When he returned, Sylar had scooted over. Even in the darkness, Peter could see the man's eyes were wide. Another wave of gratification passed over him – Sylar's appreciation was profound and that was everything Peter wanted. He was being heroic, in such a small way, being cheered and applauded by a grateful audience.

He put the pillows between them, because yeah, he was going to sleep with Sylar, but he wasn't going to 'sleep with Sylar'. (Although he had to admit to himself that if the guy would be this thankful if Peter made love with him then … it would be a lot harder to resist than Peter had thought.) He bypassed the chair, slid under the covers, smiled gently in Sylar's direction, and said, "Good night."


	37. Push

"You hate me," Sylar said softly, but his tone told of the victory he found in those words. He was _important_, enough at least to have gained Peter's hatred – Peter, who tried to find the good in everyone. How ironic. All the more humorous that Peter now had to put up with him regardless.

Peter glowered up at him for a moment and Sylar had to steel himself from flinching. Not at the gaze – of course not – but the unnerving feeling that he was about to get hit again. But then Peter looked away, dropping his eyes to the materials he'd laid out on his leg. He picked up the tube of ointment and began to fidget with it, unscrewing the cap. His head made jerky motions as his eyes darted around guiltily. A smug smile curved Sylar's mouth and he settled back a little more, relaxing. Peter wouldn't be hitting him any time soon. No, Peter was too busy flogging _himself_.

Peter put down the tube and reached out to take Sylar's hand. Sylar indulgently allowed it, having the feeling that he was being served rather than assisted and that made all the difference. If Peter noticed, he didn't say anything.

"Yeah, I hate you." He was silent a moment, dutifully applying ointment like he wasn't caretaking on someone he'd just admitted to hating. Sylar found the man so confusing at times, but right at the moment he was pleased to let his hand rest on the brace on Peter's right hand while his left was busy tending him. Peter put down the ointment and picked up one of the bandages, continuing, muttering out loud as if to himself, "Kind of stupid, really. 'Hey, come help me save these people, and oh, by the way, I hate your guts.' Ha. Like that's going to work. Don't know what I was thinking. No, I know. I thought …" He sighed and sagged, head dropping a little more over his work, "I thought it didn't matter – how I felt. People's lives are worth a lot more than my feelings. I fuck things up. Should have brought … I don't know. Someone you might have listened to. Not me. Why _would _you?"

Sylar grinned, taking a sadistic pleasure in rubbing it in. "Don't beat yourself up _too_ much, Peter. It's not like fate should have expected any _better_ from you."

Peter glowered up at him again, but only for a second before looking back to apply the last bandage. "Thanks," he said dully. "You certainly know how to make it hurt."


	38. Older Women

"I think I prefer older women," Peter professed. "They're kind of like men in that they know what they want. I think I'd be lost in bed with someone who didn't know what they wanted." He looked over at Sylar, who was staring at him with a little too much rapt, fixated attention, like he was trying to burn this information into his definitely off-kilter brain. Sometimes Peter had the impression that Sylar thought Peter's ramblings would unlock some great secret of how to be normal, which Peter thought was a laugh if it were true.

Peter had noticed, of course, that Sylar seemed to enjoy simply listening to him. It was weird, but so was Sylar. Among the many things they could be doing and different ways they could be interacting, this one seemed pretty harmless. And Peter liked it. It was an ego-stroke. Every. Single. Damn. Time. He felt guilty for liking it so much. In fact, he liked it _**so**_ much he didn't even mind when Sylar not-so-innocently steered the conversations in really odd, personal directions. Like tonight.

These weren't things Peter would have told anyone else, but Sylar already had Nathan's memories. Peter assumed this included the changing of diapers and embarrassing toddler experiences along with a host of dumb kid moments. While Sylar relentlessly dug at a side of Peter's life he'd never shared with Nathan, Peter was willing to share it because, seriously, the guy already had all the humiliating and incriminating data he needed. It wasn't like Peter was giving him any ammunition he didn't already have. And anyway, Sylar paid so much attention when he talked about this stuff. Even if Nathan's memories weren't in the mix, Peter might have blurted out all kinds of things just for the intent regard he got in reward.

Peter could have swore Sylar's eyes widened just a tiny bit as though he just now realized Peter might be waiting for some form of feedback. In reality, Peter was wondering what Sylar was going to do with a collection of information on Peter's opinions on sex (and yes, he knew that Sylar apparently had intentions that 'just talking' about it would not be the eventual extent of their interactions … Peter didn't particularly care about Sylar's plans - what happened would happen). Sylar swallowed, cleared his throat a little and offered, "Oh, yeah. I can totally understand that."

Peter looked away and chuckled, oddly tickled that Sylar was so into him. Or … maybe it wasn't so odd after all. Grinning warmly, the corners of his eyes crinkled deeply in genuine amusement and appreciation, he looked back at Sylar, whose eyes definitely widened at Peter's open, welcoming expression. _Oh yeah. Sylar's always known what he wanted. _Peter looked away again, his cheeks heating. He sighed happily, still pleased, still guilty, wondering how long it was going to take before what was going to happen … happened.


	39. Heavy Duty Care

**A/N: This was a spin-off of More Between Us, Chapter 27ish. For those not familiar with that story - Peter and Sylar had a bad fight and although Sylar mostly won, he was badly concussed as a result. Peter was slightly concussed, but relatively okay. When Peter got Sylar back to Sylar's apartment and tried to examine his injuries, Sylar became paranoid that Peter was using this as a pretext to molest or otherwise take advantage of him.**

Peter wasn't making any sense. He just wasn't. Sylar suspected that even if he were at full capacity, he still wouldn't be able to make sense of Petrelli's actions. He could recall that they hadn't made sense before the concussion, either. And right now, at his diminished ability, there was just no way of figuring the man out. Assuming, even, that Peter wasn't deliberately trying to confuse him.

At the moment, Peter was running his hands through Sylar's hair under pretense of … something. Sylar wasn't sure what. He'd said he was doing an examination, checking for injuries or something. Wasn't it perfectly clear Sylar was fucked up? It wasn't a secret; it wasn't a mystery. Why did Peter feel the need to "check" this? But here Peter was, fingers now probing around the hematoma caused when the man had hit him in the skull (what was he thinking with such a stupid blow? Knowing Peter - probably not much of anything) the week before.

Peter moved on, feeling and actually rubbing slightly at the musculature at the base of his neck, making Sylar wonder for a second if he was going to give him a massage. No. Peter moved on to the front of his neck, murmuring, "I'll get you some Tiger Balm after we're done." Sylar breathed a little faster as his exposed throat was caressed. He raised his chin at Peter's unspoken command, a minor push on his jaw, feeling like an animal at a show. Directly fighting this was still an option, but for the moment Sylar was playing for time, hoping he'd uncover motives and intentions. Peter found his pulse point with uncomfortably practiced ease, then grimaced at the non-functional watch he wore. He looked over at one of Sylar's many clocks, keeping time.

They sat there for long seconds while Sylar looked down on Peter through narrowed eyes. Maybe Peter had a doctor kink he wanted to play out. Maybe he wanted to know exactly how bad he'd hurt Sylar so he could gloat over the injuries, or so that if and when they fought again, Peter would know the weak spots to aim for. Maybe he thought Sylar was too weakened to resist him and this was Peter's way of pushing him around, getting off on Sylar's obedience and subservience under the guise of 'medical care'. Sylar's mind, sluggish as it was, continued to struggle through the options as Peter finished with his pulse and told him, "That's good. Real strong pulse. Let's get your shirt off."

_Ah, yes. Disrobing. Take your clothes off and put on this gown. Turn around and cough. Whatever. So this is it, then? This is your pretext to getting me naked and even more defenseless than I already am?_

"Come on, Sylar. I need to look at you."

Apparently just sitting there staring at Petrelli wasn't going to work. Sylar let his eyes wander across the floor and very slowly raised his hands to the buttons, mostly to make sure Peter didn't do it himself. Sylar sized himself up. He was concussed, easily confused, and had horrible balance. He was still strong, though, and coordinated enough to throw punches. So was Peter, and even if Peter was handicapped by a broken hand, that was more than compensated by his superior balance, reflexes and mobility. Plus, annoying and disheartening as it was to admit, Peter had him firmly on reasoning and cognitive ability at the moment, so trying to pull something sneaky on him probably wouldn't work.

One button after another was unfastened. All Peter needed to do was land one or two hard blows to Sylar's head and that would be all she wrote, upgrading his moderate concussion to severe or worse yet, to death. With some people, Sylar would have expected that knowing this about his state, they would go out of their way to avoid actually killing him. Peter was not 'some people'. It seemed very likely, given Petrelli's conduct in the last two fights, and his somewhat fogged recollections of previous ones - whether as Nathan or Sylar he didn't know or care at the moment - that once Peter got going in a fight, that death blows were the order of business if he could land them. It was a stupid, idiotic tactic to take, but this was Peter.

Sylar parted his shirt and stiffly shrugged it off his shoulders, sliding it down his arms. He tried to do this part fast, because otherwise he'd be a sitting duck in front of Peter, hands tied up behind him. He pulled. He tugged. The cloth tightened around his wrists, bunched and wouldn't let go. He considered panicking, jerking and fighting free. His eyes widened for a moment and he stared at Peter, who was watching him calmly. Peter smirked a little, realizing the problem.

_Yes, the problem is I have a fucking concussion and I didn't think to unbutton my cuffs first. I am so fucked up I can't even outthink my own shirt. There is no way I can fight Peter. All I have to do is survive this. Just do whatever I need to do to survive._

Sylar surrendered, leaning forward, panting from the brief surge of fear at being trapped, and because his sinuses were hopelessly clogged. His hair fell across his face and he looked up at Peter through it, putting as much vulnerability as possible in his features. Peter noticed. His face changed; he smiled nervously. Sylar rasped out, "I'll do whatever you need me to do, Peter."

Peter's brows raised just slightly. He didn't miss the invitation, the offer, the unconditional nature of what Sylar was putting on the table. Complete compliance would, Sylar hoped, minimize how much he was hurt, at least physically. Peter would not need to beat him or threaten him to get whatever it was Peter wanted. And maybe if he made the offer this baldly, Peter would finally clear up what, exactly, his intentions were.

"What … um …" Peter touched the bare point of his shoulder and Sylar dropped his head and his gaze. His hands were bound helplessly behind him. He sat before Peter, defeated by his own clothing. It was humiliating. Peter gave him a nudge. "Turn around and I'll help you out."

_Tie me up tighter, no doubt,_ Sylar thought as he shifted and turned obediently, presenting his hands to his captor. As he expected, Peter didn't immediately move to release him. Instead, he twitched the cloth down and looked at Sylar's back. But then, surprisingly, he moved his hands to Sylar's wrists and started fumbling at them. Mostly one-handed as he was, it wasn't all that easy. "You have a pretty big bruise back here," Peter observed. "What's that from?"

Sylar took a deep breath and lowered his voice to a husky, velvet tone that intentionally conveyed a lot of things so far left unsaid between them. "You pushed me down on the bed, climbed on top of me and straddled me. Don't tell me you've forgotten?"

Peter was silent, working off one of the cuffs and then pushing the sleeve up so he could get at the other, even though he could have left the task to Sylar. "I didn't know it bruised you up so bad." His voice was a little tight, but with an effort towards being normal. Certainly he wasn't responding to the obvious invitation in Sylar's tone and so Sylar dropped it for the moment. Peter got the rest of his shirt off and distracted Sylar completely by moving his fingers down Sylar's spine, touching and seeming to measure out the spaces between vertebrae. The sensation gave Sylar a shiver and he didn't bother to suppress it. _Let Peter see the effect he's having._

Peter, for his part, was shocked at the size and discoloration of the bruise, but he recalled walking out to see Sylar stretching shortly after their first fight. He didn't think there was a broken rib and it was just a little too high to have hurt the kidney. He was pretty sure it was just a bad bruise. "I'm going to feel along your ribs, here." He traced the ones well above the injury, applying enough pressure to get a feel for how undamaged tissue responded - how much flex there was in the cartilage and how giving the muscle was. Sylar had excellent muscle tone. He dropped down to the next rib and repeated, skirting the edge of the blue-black skin and paying careful attention to Sylar's breathing as an indicator of pain. There was no change.

The next one down caused a more rapid intake of air than before. "Does that hurt sharply," Peter asked, "or is it just sore?"

Sylar hesitated, not sure what answer 'Dr. Petrelli' wanted. Peter repeated the touch, probing at him again as if he might need a repeat of the pain to better judge it, or maybe just motivation to answer. "It's mostly just sore," he said quietly, straining to tell if that was the answer Peter wanted.

Peter moved down without comment to the next one, which was also sore as hell, and used a similar pressure as before. "Is this the same, worse or better?"

Sylar considered Peter's voice - it was just the same, no more brusque or demanding, just asking. His touch was no rougher or harder, so Sylar guessed he was giving the right answer, or at least an acceptable one. "It's the same."

"Okay. I don't think there's anything broken, but it's something to think about for how you lie."

_You mean what position you put me in to service you?_ Sylar didn't say that though. He knew his back hurt when he laid on it, but like hell was he going to lie on his stomach with Peter around. It would take that second or two extra to get up, or to even see the guy coming. Though now that he thought about it, maybe lying on his side would be okay.

"Go ahead and turn around so I can see your front." Peter pulled the shirt out of the way and tossed it on the chair.

Sylar's eyes looked after it. That was unsurprising, that Peter was putting his clothes where he couldn't get to them. He straightened so Peter could see what he was getting.

"Yeah, that's what I wanted to see," Peter murmured, which snapped Sylar's eyes rather painfully back to him. Peter was staring at the bruise and rash on his lower abdomen. About half of it was under his pants. And his underwear.

_An excellent pretext to have me undress - this 'examination' thing. I'll have to remember it for the next time you're hurt worse than I am, Petrelli._

"Lie down, please," Peter said and Sylar complied, making himself as comfortable as he could. He felt very exposed - not as much as he expected to be later, though, so for now he just swallowed it down and put on a show of being unbothered. "How are your hands?" Peter asked.

"I thought what you wanted to see was a bit lower," Sylar purred. Peter glanced up at him, expression flat. Sylar quietly and lightly bit his tongue. _Wrong thing to say. He doesn't like that. I'm not doing right. If I don't want to be hurt, I have to do right. What does he want? For me to be totally passive?_ He tried to think of the times when he'd gotten to Peter, when Peter had looked interested or aroused, and correlate them with how active or passive Sylar had been at the time. His brain hurt too much for it. And Peter was talking to him anyway, which was distracting.

"I'm concerned about your stomach, yeah, but I don't want to get tunnel vision or I'll miss things like that bruise on your back. Your gut's not going anywhere. I want to check everything. How are your hands?"

_Oh, __**everything**__. Sure, Dr. Petrelli. Prostate exam included in that full check-up? I promise you that I am 'fully functional'. _He didn't answer Peter's question, letting Peter pick up his hand and examine it, beginning to peel off the bandaging.

Peter spoke instead, saying, "From what I've seen you have full mobility. I'm going to take off the tape and stuff. If it's all scabbed up and sealed, then I'm going to leave them off. You're not doing anything to get your hands dirty, and they'll heal faster in the open air anyway."

_Is that code for 'don't touch me, let me do all the touching'? I wish he'd just come out and say what he wants! Why does he do this and then get mad when I don't respond like he wants? It's …_ Peter didn't seem mad. _Maybe I __**am**__ doing what he wants?_ "Okay," he said, since it seemed like he should contribute something to the conversation. Peter had moved on to his other hand and was repeating the process of whatever it was he was doing. Sylar's back felt warm on the couch. It was nice just lying there, having someone play with his hands, touching them, tugging at them, turning them this way and that, doing whatever. He zoned out.

If Peter had stuck to fondling his hands, Sylar might have truly slipped off to sleep. But that wasn't Peter's script. Next thing Sylar knew, Peter was slipping his hand up Sylar's forearm and cupping his elbow, which startled him to more wakefulness than he wanted. He jumped and took a moment to orient himself, reviewing recent events and figuring out why he was lying on a couch shirtless with Peter Petrelli feeling up his arms.

Speaking of which, Peter rotated his forearm up and down, testing range of motion, Sylar assumed. He tried to relax again and get back into the compliant frame of mind that he suspected he needed to get through this. Peter probed at the back of his elbow. "Does this hurt?"

Peter moved his arm again and it did hurt where he was pressing, but once more Sylar was faced with the dilemma of what to say. This would be a lot easier if he knew what answer Peter wanted. "Uh … yes?"

Peter nodded and moved to the other arm, repeating the process and the question. "How about this?" But this time, even though his fingers were in the same place, he wasn't putting any pressure on it. It didn't hurt.

Sylar kept his face the same, realizing Peter was tricking him, or testing him. "No, that doesn't hurt at all," he said, letting his voice show an element of wonder. Peter nodded and Sylar could see he'd passed the test. It put him on guard. _So he doesn't want a yes or no, but the truth? That's … strange. Why doesn't he already know what answer he wants?_

Peter said, "That's just normal hyperextension of the joint after a fist fight. I've got it, too. It's not a big deal." He moved his hands to the center of Sylar's chest, feeling down the sternum, noting Sylar's intake of breath and then holding it tensely as Peter checked. "Everything seems firmly attached," he murmured, turning his head now to look at Sylar's face. Sylar started breathing again. Peter put his hands over the upper left quadrant of Sylar's abdomen, palpating carefully. He took his eyes away just long enough to shift down to lower left quadrant, then looked back to Sylar's face as he repeated.

Sylar wasn't sure what Peter was doing looking at him so much all of a sudden. He was squishing around on his gut - which was pretty rude, but Peter hadn't asked and probably didn't care. Sylar hoped his internals were up to par. A prostate exam looked a lot more likely, even if it was stupid given his lack of injury to said area. _But then, it's not about that, is it?_

Peter shifted to the upper right of his stomach, feeling around thoroughly while watching Sylar's face like a hawk. Sylar frowned at the scrutiny. Peter's hands went to lower right, over the deep bruising and Sylar's eyes twitched and face stiffened. He saw in an instant how Peter's eyes darted around his features and Peter's touch lightened. That was Sylar's answer for what Peter had been looking for - any indication of pain or discomfort and he'd gotten it where he expected, but he'd also gotten a confirmation that there was none anywhere else. _Clever boy, _Sylar thought.

"Tell me," Peter asked, "is this sharp pain or dull pain?"

"Dull," Sylar answered honestly. It felt like Peter was poking him with a single finger. He looked down to see it was actually three held close together. _I wonder if that's how he puts his hand when he puts it into someone else's …_ Sylar jerked his thoughts away from that. Besides, Peter was repeating his question and moving his hand around, apparently feeling his way through all the organs that might lie under the area of bruising. Sylar reported to him a string of "dull"s until Peter seemed satisfied.

"All done?" Sylar asked as Peter straightened from where he'd been half-squatting next to the couch. _That has to be a really uncomfortable way to sit._ He watched as Peter grimaced, stood and stretched, confirming it._ Why would he do that? Why not just make me be the one in the uncomfortable position?_

"No. I need your pants off. I want to check the stability of your hips, look at your leg, and make sure I'm not missing anything."

_Er …_ Sylar's mind locked up at the plethora of possible innuendo in that so-innocently-delivered sentence. "'Kay," Sylar said eventually, unzipping his pants, reminding himself that he was in no position to fight and Peter had proven that he was very determined about this, even if Sylar still hadn't worked out why. He pushed down his jeans a little, looking up at Peter with an open, guileless expression. "My underwear, too?"

Peter was looking at Sylar's feet and said distractedly, "No. I can just pull them aside a little for the hip. Do you have any other injuries there?"

Sylar wondered what he was supposed to answer to that. _Is that an invitation? Is he feeling out how cooperative I am? I'm being real cooperative. That's me - cooperative, passive patient; good patient; doing whatever Dr. Petrelli wants. Wouldn't want to make him hurt me. I might have to slap him with a malpractice suit and no one wants that._ "Um … you might need to check?" He pushed his pants down, leaving his underwear up.

Peter glanced back at him, wearing not the happiest of expressions.

_He doesn't want to see me,_ Sylar thought. _Maybe he thinks I'm dirty or malformed? _His head hurt._ No … I just don't know what he thinks. Fine. I give up. Do what you want to me, Peter, because you're going to anyway_. Peter had taken a seat at the other end of the couch, derailing his thoughts. Peter was messing with his feet, taking off his shoes. Belatedly, Sylar realized he'd been in the process of repeating the same screw-up as with the shirt, pushing his pants down without taking his shoes off first would only result in said pants getting tangled around his ankles. Not as big a deal lying down as standing up, but apparently Peter wanted them all the way off.

Peter unlaced his shoes and slipped them off, then looked back and forth between his feet. They were big feet. Sylar felt self-conscious about them. Peter hovered his hand over one and then the other, over the toes. He had sensed something, with whatever weird paramedic-sense he possessed. Brows pulled together, Peter began to feel of his toes.

Sylar twitched his foot out of Peter's grip. He'd forgotten about his stubbed toes. Peter reached slowly for the foot and pulled it back. Sylar shut his eyes and submitted, teeth locked as tightly as he could manage without making his head ache.

"What happened to your foot?" Peter asked, carefully rolling the sock off.

"I kicked a file cabinet." He couldn't remember why, exactly. It had something to do with Peter being an insufferable prick, he was sure, but the specifics eluded him. Luckily, Peter didn't ask any more about that.

Instead, Peter asked, "Do you think anything's broken here? Looks painful."

"I don't think anything is broken." _Yes, of course it hurts, you dumbass! I kicked a fucking file cabinet!_ He scowled down the length of his body at Peter, who looked up at him a few times, but mostly examined his foot. It had to stink, but Peter didn't seem to care. It wasn't like the rest of Sylar probably smelled all that rosy. Peter moved one toe, then the next, feeling along them for angularity or deformation. Sylar sighed. Other than the occasional discomfort, the touching was nice and Peter was clearly being very careful. Just as clearly, he was going to do it whether Sylar wanted him to or not. _This has got to be the weirdest foreplay on the planet._

Investigation done, Peter turned to the other foot. "How's the other foot?"

"Fine," Sylar said in a bored tone.

Peter checked it anyway, then pulled off Sylar's pants. Sylar suppressed an urge to cover himself or make more of an issue of his near-nakedness than he did. He watched Peter apprehensively, waiting for it (whatever _**it**_ was) to happen. Surely it would be soon, right?

Peter went over his calves with a quick sweep, felt up his knees and looked at his good thigh. Then he looked at the one where Peter had tried to kneecap him, and had instead ended up kicking him really solidly in the muscle of his upper leg. Peter sighed and silently probed around at the swollen, discolored flesh, trying to discern exactly which muscles were affected. That would tell him how much of Sylar's limping was due to balance issues (though he now also had the toes to factor in) and how much due to concussion. When he was done, Peter tugged out the blanket Sylar had used earlier and covered his legs with it.

_Considerate of him,_ Sylar thought, watching as Peter moved his area of interest to Sylar's groin. _Whoa._ Sylar's breathing sped up. Remarkably, he'd actually calmed down a lot while Peter was focused on his feet and legs. It was almost like this was a true and real physical exam, without any undertones or subtext.

Peter looked up at his face and said, "I'm going to put my hands on either of your hips and push a little. You might feel a little pressure. Let me know immediately if it hurts."

Sylar's lips were sealed, having no idea what to expect. _'Hip stability', he said._ _Like whether or not I'm safe to fuck? Then wouldn't he want my underwear off?_

Peter did exactly what he'd said he'd do, his hands fitting around Sylar's hips and gripping him firmly in a way that made it impossible for Sylar to avoid thinking of Peter doing that while engaged in more … penetrative … activities. Then Peter looked up at him intently just like he had when feeling about on his stomach. Sylar decided to let his feelings show - maybe that would help - vulnerable, uncertain, scared, and kind of turned on because hey, he'd never had anyone grab him there … like that. Peter squeezed and pressed, then rocked his hips to one side, then the other, all while looking at Sylar's face, right into his eyes.

_Jesus, Peter. How am I __**not**__ supposed to think of sex at a time like this?_

Peter, though, let go. "That didn't hurt?" he asked, all-business.

"No," Sylar answered, his voice small.

Peter nodded and slipped a finger under Sylar's waistband, making him jump. "I'm going to pull this aside and look at your hip. There's an abrasion that goes under your underwear. I need to make sure it didn't break the skin."

_Now! Now it's going to happen!_ Sylar nodded too fast and held perfectly still as another man pulled his underwear down and to the side. He swallowed and his hands made fists on the couch cushions as he felt Peter's finger, hooked under the fabric, dig into his pubic hair. _Oh my God, he's touching me!_ Not his penis itself, but … it was definitely in that area. Peter's hand was in that area. Sylar felt like he was about to crawl out of his skin, breathing hard and fast while Peter just … looked at his hip. Like it was no big deal. Sylar noted that Peter gave one deviation to that as his eyes glanced up to take in Sylar's white-knuckled grip on the cushion, but that was it.

Peter moved Sylar's clothes, such as they were, back to rights and pulled the blanket the rest of the way over him. He said, "Tell me where you keep your clean clothes and I'll get you a new set."

"That's … all?"

Peter looked down at Sylar with an expression of warmth and sympathy that Sylar didn't like. "Yeah, pretty much." Peter's expression went back to normal for him and he repeated, "Tell me where your other clothes are," as he moved off towards the obvious areas to look near Sylar's bed. "We'll get some Tiger Balm on you before you get dressed, but I don't see any problems you have that I can do much about directly. You need bed rest; you're getting it. You need constant supervision; you're getting it."

Peter found Sylar's boxes of extra clothes without assistance, picking out what he needed. He brought them over and set them on the chair, dragging over the first aid tote next. He produced the mentioned warming product for strains and sprains. Sylar took it from him, regretting it a moment later because that left it to him to smear it across his skin. _I probably could have gotten __**him**__ to do it. Seriously, though, that's everything? Not even going to feel me up and … whatever else, while he has the chance?_

Peter remained at his side to make sure Sylar stayed on task enough to get the tiger balm on the affected parts. Then he wandered off to the kitchen so Sylar could dress in 'privacy'. Sylar almost didn't want to bother. He was tired. All the stress and excitement had worn him out. He was confused. After all that build-up, nothing had happened. Despite being a Petrelli, Peter didn't seem inclined to go through all that just for a mind-fuck. All Sylar was sure of was that Peter still didn't make a lick of sense.


	40. Modest Proposal

"I wouldn't mind waking up next to you for the rest of my life," Sylar said, voice raw and unguarded.

Peter blinked, lifting his eyes from where he'd been watching his hand idly stroke Sylar's forearm. They'd both woke a few minutes before, but neither was in any hurry to leave the bed. Peter looked at the other man, considering what it might be like to be able to rely on someone to be at his side for that long. What devotion that took, and Peter didn't doubt for a second that Sylar meant it as completely as it sounded.

"I'd like that," Peter whispered in reply, chest tightening as he realized how much what Sylar had said sounded like a proposal and how much his answer, like acceptance. Sylar obviously heard it the same. Eyes watering, Peter scooted over and drew the man to him. The happy embrace seemed to go on forever.


	41. Sweet Nothings

**A/N: This was originally set up as two 100 word drabbles.**

"Don't worry yourself too much about it, Sweetie."

Peter rolled his eyes and sighed. The endearments had become a staple of Sylar's recent language. "Don't call me names when you don't mean it."

He felt Sylar's full attention fix on him, but Peter looked away. A head tilt later, Sylar asked, "When I don't mean it?"

"Yes. Don't call me names."

"Unless I mean them."

Peter turned, fists balling up for a fight he didn't want. "Yes. You're not my _sweetie_."

Peter couldn't tell if he was joking or not when Sylar responded with: "That doesn't mean you're not _mine_."

* * *

><p>Peter sputtered. "I'm not <em>yours<em>! I'm not your anything!"

Sylar gave a deep, velvety chuckle. He'd expected nothing less than complete rejection, but it still stung. His manner of showing it was to up the ante, moving to loom over Peter. "Yes, you are. You're my enemy. You're my …" His eyes stroked up and down Peter's form suggestively, "companion. I get to think of you whatever way I want and there's nothing you can do about it." His lips mimed a kiss before he said, "Sweetie."

Well, it had been a while since he'd been socked in the face.


	42. Sparring

Peter danced back and forth, displaying some pretty good footwork as he punched and jabbed playfully at Sylar's arms and chest. "Come on! Fight me!"

Sylar drew himself up. Cool, disinterested-looking eyes regarded his antagonist from the elevation, keeping close watch. He knew guys mock-fought a lot. It was a sign of affectionate approval, but he wasn't sure how to reciprocate without getting hurt.

"Fine." Peter stopped, shoulders slumping, and turned away to sulk. "You're no fu-" Sylar whapped him on the back of the head, lightning-quick.

Peter made a surprised cry and wheeled, jumping directly at Sylar so unexpectedly that the taller man could do nothing about being tackled (painfully) to the ground. Air driven out of him, he was powerless as Peter scrambled up, straddled him, and grabbed his throat with an exultant grin.

Sylar slapped a hand over Peter's wrist and froze there, because Peter wasn't choking him. And in fact, as the shock cleared from his brain, he realized this was incredibly sexy – Peter crouching above him, groin inches from his own, panting and flushed from the sudden assault, while Sylar still had adrenaline coursing through him and making everything super-sharp. A faltering, uncertain expression graced Peter's face. Sylar slowly rubbed the wrist in his hand, keeping his features neutral. He hoped Peter wouldn't decide the best way to show this wasn't the rough foreplay it looked like was to move things along to bloody violence.

A half-smile bloomed, then shuttered, then bloomed again on Peter's face. He blushed, stammered something unintelligible, and tugged his hand away, swinging himself up to his feet. He reached down to help Sylar stand, bringing him up, whether intentionally or not, a bit too close to himself. Sylar could have put his arms around him in embrace without either of them having to take a step. Peter's eyes rested on Sylar's lips for a very long beat, before Peter rolled his shoulders and inhaled deeply. "Maybe we can spar some other time." Peter reached out and slapped him on the outside of his shoulder as he moved away.

"I'd love to." Getting hurt looked like it might be worth it.


	43. What I Like About You

**A/N: This isn't a story so much as a list – five points for each of them.**

**Peter's turn**

Sylar was hot. Peter felt horrible for that being the first reason, but he was very human and no one with eyes and an appreciation for the male form could see Sylar and overlook the fact that he was scorching. While Peter prided himself on seeing the inside of a person as well as the out, that didn't mean, at all, that he was blind to that outside. Eyes, mouth, strong features without being too rugged, hair (glorious hair, all over), lean, strong, tough, healthy, athletic … oh yes!

He wanted to make Peter happy. Again, Peter wanted to crawl under a rock for how selfish his reasons were. But to have a partner who idolized him? _Swoon!_ He wanted to be looked up to, seen as a hero, appreciated and understood. Or at least appreciated. No kind word or gesture to Sylar went unnoticed and the guy was grateful for every one. Peter suspected that was deeply unhealthy of Sylar (or at least a powerful marker of the effects of past trauma still lingering in the present), but it attracted Peter like a moth to flame.

He needed Peter's help. Peter liked to pretend this was his big, unselfish reason, but deep inside, he knew he wanted the ego boost of knowing he had done something good for someone. It validated him to see people benefit from his efforts. And Sylar – Sylar needed a lot of effort. Peter knew it wouldn't be easy; he didn't want it to be easy. He wanted to be the one who had confounded everyone's expectations by helping someone no one else would bother with. He wanted people to look at what he was doing and talk about how noble he was – and not because it just looked noble, but because it _was_. Peter wanted to be able to wake up in the morning and feel good about what he was doing in the world. He wanted there to be at least one person whom he made a difference to, every day.

Sylar wanted to be with Peter. For some reason – hero worship, Nathan, self-defense, wanting to be a Petrelli-by-proxy, the most special, whatever – Sylar wanted to be in Peter's life and for Peter to be in his. And he was obviously willing to put up with a lot of shit to have that. Which was good, because Peter was aware he was, in his own way, very high maintenance. He was driven, prone to tunnel-vision, not a good team player, aggressive, moody, reactionary, fiery, abrupt … yeah, Peter was at times hyper-aware of his own flaws, but that didn't stop him from having them. They'd driven away so many potential lovers over the years. He was so grateful to have found someone who didn't act like they'd leave him as soon as the slightest other thing in their life changed.

Speaking of change, Sylar was willing to. Not only willing, but Sylar _wanted_ to change who he was. In that thirst for self-empowerment, Peter saw an echo of his own overpowering drive to be what other people wanted. He knew that desperation to be found worthy, an inadequacy so deep that you were willing to sacrifice your very life to live up to the standards of others, to win fifteen minutes, not of fame, but of approval. Except Sylar did Peter one better and was willing to lose his _soul_ for it. And he had, which was why he needed so much help. No one else in Peter's life had ever bothered to be a better person. When confronted with adversity, Nathan, Angela, Arthur, all of them and more, had simply doubled-down on being villains. Sylar was trying to be something else and Peter wanted to be right there supporting him in it.

* * *

><p><strong>Sylar's turn<strong>

Peter was kind. He was generous with attention and loving in his manner. He didn't stint on physical affection; he was a good lover. He was (usually) patient and tried to understand. He went out of his way to make sure Sylar enjoyed most of their interactions and that Sylar had what Peter thought he needed to thrive. Peter wasn't always correct in this, but his heart was in the right place and that was what Sylar valued the most.

Peter was true. He was honest and didn't try to deceive. He wore his heart on his sleeve. He wasn't trying to manipulate Sylar for his own ends and in fact, the idea never seemed to occur to Peter. Sure, Peter was fine with trying to get Sylar to do things for himself or for others, but when he did, he would just ask. It was always right out in the open and never the sort of thing where Sylar would do something and later discover Peter had arranged it so he'd gain some secret benefit.

Peter was … interesting. He was emotional. He was impetuous. He was complex and yet simple. He had dumb ideas and sometimes brilliant ones and he was perfectly willing to blurt them out (at least to Sylar; he tended to keep his mouth shut around people he didn't trust, which made Sylar so pleased that he was in Peter's inner circle). He was playful and childish at times in ways Sylar envied but felt he could never do himself. He was sensitive for all his obliviousness. Sylar liked that Peter was so easy to provoke or soothe, to turn this way and that to get the reaction he desired. He liked that Peter was reliable in his responses, yet not predictable, if you could see the difference.

Peter was respectable. He was from a good family, or at least one with a good name. If Virginia had been alive, and she hadn't died of shock at Sylar's lover being a man, then she would have been thrilled to have Peter as a son-in-law. His family was rich and high status, politicians and lawyers! He was handsome (which would have mattered a lot to Virginia, although to Sylar it was just a nice benefit). He was polite and could be proper when necessary. He was even visibly compassionate as a nurse and paramedic. Oh yes, Virginia would be ecstatic that her Gabriel had landed such a prize. He might have finally done something good enough for her.

Peter didn't seem to mind him too much and was willing to put up with living with him. He'd carved out a space in his life for Sylar to fit into, even taking him as a lover. Amazingly, he seemed satisfied with Sylar as a person, even if he objected at times to various behaviors. Behaviors could be fixed, Sylar knew (not that he always bothered, and sometimes it was more fun to watch Peter jump around in agitation). He had the feeling Peter wasn't going to turn on him some day and declare him a monster. (Now, he might come after him for something he did, but that was different.) It was … _Damn!_ It was as if Peter actually _liked_ him.


	44. Money Matters

bTitle:/b Money Matters

bCharacters:/b Sylar, Peter Petrelli

bRating:/b G

bWarnings:/b None

bWord count:/b 2,800

bSetting:/b The Wall

bSummary:/b Sylar stumbles onto an unexpected area of knowledge for Peter.

bNotes:/b I woke up thinking about how Sylar and Peter were like salt (salt of the earth, very practical) and pepper (spicy and preservative), their initials being S&P. Then I got to thinking of the S&P 500 and a fic happened. Sorry it's a little light on plot, but maybe you wanted to know something about money management?

"What is a stock?"

Peter blinked at him from across the small table in the ice cream parlor. A waffle cone of green, pistachio-almond ice cream was in one hand. "Where'd that come from?"

"You said in that dream you recounted yesterday that you told Charles you knew how to pick a stock. So … what _is_ a stock?" Sylar had a bowl before him with a small scoop of orange sherbet and a matching scoop of vanilla. He had been methodically taking a spoonful of one and then the other, intermittently watching how Peter used his tongue on his cone. Talking would draw out the process.

Peter's brows drew together in puzzlement. "Nathan didn't know?"

Sylar paused in the middle of acquiring another spoonful of vanilla. "I get to talk about what Nathan knew?"

"Uh ..."

Sylar shrugged and jumped in with an answer before Peter retracted the implied permission. "He joined the Navy, went to law school, started a family, and went into politics. He never had to think about money. His parents bankrolled him, bought his house and car for him, everything. As long as he did what he was told, money would never be an object for him." Sylar huffed slightly. "I'm not Nathan. Money matters. What's a stock?" He ate his latest spoonful, pinning Peter down with his gaze.

"Okay." Peter took a few more licks of his cone and ordered his thoughts. "A stock is a share of company. Like … a person has a business, selling flowers or pizza or making cars, and they want more money to expand their business or maybe they're just selling it so they can retire. They'll offer it for public sale through a financial institution, offering people shares of it, like percentages of the value of the company."

"So that's what the '51% ownership' stuff I've heard about means? That they sell 49% of the company and keep 51% for themselves?"

"Exactly. That's if they want to keep running the company. And people buy it because they think the company will be worth more in the future. So they buy a thousand dollars worth of the flower shop thinking that after the owner (who after selling shares is called the president because he's no longer the sole owner) expands the company, then their thousand dollar share will be worth i_two/i_ thousand dollars."

"Shares are all equal?"

"They're all equal in the same company, but as far as the shares of one company versus the value of shares of a different company go, those are always different. Because shares can be resold later, if you want your money back or you decide to invest somewhere else, you'll offer your share for sale and it sells for whatever other people are willing to pay for it." Peter paused to swipe off the melting skein of green ice cream from the bottom of his cone. "That might be less than you bought it for, but hopefully it's more. And whatever the current market rate is for your share indicates the average market rate for everyone else's shares of the same company."

"So they're … tokens … in representation of money."

"In representation of portions of ownership of companies, who are hopefully doing things that make money. Picking a stock means trying to guess which companies are going to do well and be worth more tomorrow or next year or ten years from now, and avoiding companies that are going to do badly because their management sucks, or they're in a sector of the economy that isn't going to do well."

"You know a lot about this." Sylar leaned forward and put down his spoon, intent and fascinated. "I've heard them on the news make stock reports about the Dow Jones and S&P 500. What are those? They aren't companies, are they?"

"No, the things they're reporting on aren't companies. They're indexes. An index is an attempt to figure out which direction the economy is going, how the average business is doing in a certain field of business. So people pick a certain number of companies, like for the S&P (that's Standard and Poor's, by the way), they pick five hundred companies they think represent the economy, then they add together the dollar value of a percentage worth of each business, and the sum of all five hundred is a number they call the S&P 500. Then they track how that value changes, up and down, and announce it as a sort of barometer of how the economy is doing."

"And the same for the Dow Jones?"

"Yeah, but there's a bunch of different Dow Jones indexes. I think it's the industrial one that gets all the press, but I might be wrong. Companies like Sears and … uh, Ford and 3M and stuff are in it. Every now and then the people at Dow Jones decide that a particular company no longer represents the market share they picked it for and they'll delist it and pick something else. Like maybe Wal-Mart's on there now instead of Sears. I don't know."

"But following one of these indexes doesn't tell you how your particular company is doing, does it?"

"No." Peter made a round of nibbling out all the exposed nuts from his ice cream. Sylar took a bite of his own to pass the time, waiting for Peter's eventual continuation. "Most people don't buy shares of individual companies, because that's really risky. If the company gets a bad manager or they have a fire or get sued, then you'll lose all your money. So most of the money that gets invested gets invested in money market funds."

Sylar's brows twitched upwards and he gestured for Peter to continue, a warm, growing smile on his face at having unexpectedly discovered some gem like this within his companion. It was better than watching him lick frozen dairy products!

"A money market fund is where they take your money and pool it with money from other investors, and then use that pool of money to buy … well, like they'd take the S&P 500 and buy one share of each company on it. Or maybe they buy a thousand dollars worth of each company. I'm not sure about the details, but you get the point?" Sylar nodded. "So that way, risk is spread out over a bunch of companies. If the economy goes up, your fund value goes up, too."

"But you don't get any of that increase unless you sell your stocks, right?"

"Sort of." Peter made an ambivalent shrug and head tilt, with something of a wince on his face. "You see, if you invest a thousand dollars and after a year it's worth twelve hundred, you could sell it all and have twelve hundred dollars. _Then_ you could turn right back around and buy another thousand dollars worth of the same fund or stock, and you'd have the two hundred dollars leftover to invest somewhere else. Or go out to dinner or whatever."

"You have to pay taxes on it, right? Because that's income? Is that why people don't sell it and just keep cash all the time?"

"No, not exactly." Peter gave another uncertain roll of his shoulders and facial tic. "You see, the theory is that to have that thousand dollars to invest, you had to earn it somehow and you paid income taxes on it then. So like if you went out and earned a thousand dollars, you'd have to pay two or three hundred of that in taxes. If you decided to invest what was leftover, then you've already paid your dues. There's still capital gains taxes, which you have to pay if you cash out, but there's a lot of ways to get around that."

Sylar studied Peter's face. He'd seen that expression before. Peter did not approve of something. "So what's wrong with it?" He had to wait through another round of licking and nut-nibbling, beginning to wish he'd picked a time when Peter wasn't doing something so distracting to have this conversation. On the good side, Peter was nearly done.

"Most of the money that's out there being invested isn't 'earned'. No one had to go out and work for it, so taxes were never paid on it. Not that I think people should have to pay taxes, but it supports the public good and everyone who has a lot of wealth manages to avoid doing that through this whole investment loophole."

"If the money isn't earned, then how do they …?"

"The usual way is inheriting it. Look at Nathan. Or me. But let's go back to that issue of investing a thousand dollars – which maybe was earned normally through work, sure – and getting twelve hundred back. You re-invest that thousand and now you have two hundred dollars of untaxed profit. Or if it is taxed, it's more like a few percent than twenty or thirty. But there's ways around that and reinvestment is one of them. Pretty soon, you have a lot of money that was never earned at all. At least not the way most people think of 'earned.'"

"But you're still having to leave it invested in all these companies, so it's money you can't use, right?"

Peter chuckled and started in on eating off the edges of the waffle cone along with bites of softened ice cream. "Yeah, but, you know, you can invest it in a company whose job is to pay you a salary and buy you a house."

"You can?"

Peter laughed now, gesturing jauntily with what was left of his cone. "I don't know, but what I do know is that there's a whole lot of dodges and loopholes. The reason why people with any wealth do this sort of stuff is because it pays off. It's unfair. It's the people who happen to have more, due to birth or accident, using their power to aggrandize and profit themselves, refusing to help others."

"Maybe they just picked good stocks."

"Maybe. But that's pretty much accidental. Monkeys can pick good stocks. In fact, chimps regularly outperform money market fund managers, but there's other reasons for that."

"You said i_you/i_ could pick a good stock!"

Peter chuckled again. "Right. As good as any monkey." He popped the last bit of cone in his mouth and munched happily on it.

Sylar frowned. He still had a lot of ice cream left. Even though Peter had been doing most of the talking, he'd been listening and thinking rather than eating. Well, and watching Peter eat, which was the whole point of coming to the ice cream parlor. "Okay, so what are the other reasons why chimps outperform money market fund managers?"

"Well, for one thing, fund managers aren't paid a commission of your profits. Instead, they're usually paid a percentage of each transaction. For another, there's no inside track of secret information that lets you know how the economy is going to go in the next year or whatever. These people can't time travel and they don't have precognition, so they have no idea. But back to that first point – you see, you invest your money with them and they get paid, but then they won't get paid again until you sell and reinvest. But it's not really to your advantage to sell and reinvest, so the fund managers will set it up where they force you to do it by occasionally declaring a particular fund to be unprofitable or a poor investment, and they'll close it down and direct everyone to reinvest in a new fund that they say will be a lot better. Or, as often happens, they'll do this automatically because you gave them permission to handle your money as they saw fit."

"Isn't that illegal? They can't just make up reasons to charge you!" He remembered Virginia urging him to apply for a job as a 'nice banker', but the way Peter talked about them, some of them were corrupt. But what did Virginia know?

"Yeah, it is. It's called 'churning'. But the thing is, it's really hard to prove because the fund managers will pick funds that aren't performing well and they'll have as good a reason as any other. No one really knows what going to happen in the future, so you can't criticize based on saying they have poor judgment. Of course, if they churn too much, their clients will leave them."

"Why does anyone use them at all?"

"Because most people don't want to spend their time actively managing a fund and making that many stock transactions. The people with lots and lots of money hire someone to do it for them." Peter's voice trailed off into introspection. He wadded up his napkin and scrubbed at a spot on the table that was no dirtier or cleaner than any other spot.

"How do you know all of this?"

"There was a rally at college, talking about how unfair the wealth distribution was in the US. Of course, they were kind of preaching to the choir, but the kids of a bunch of really rich people are the ones most able to do something about it. We had some meetings about it, some of the social rights groups, talked about it a lot. And then at the end of every college year, in the spring, they'd have these seminars given by the financial groups, talking to people about how to manage money and invest it. I went to a series by … um, Morgan Stanley Dean Witter? I think that was it. Anyway, it was like six or seven sessions for free. I think they were hoping people would use them as a money manager afterward, but I just wanted to know how it all worked."

"Curiosity? You?"

"Heh. Money's like a power, Sylar, an ability. And it was one I had. I wanted to know how to use it to make a difference." Peter wandered off behind the counter to help himself to a glass of water, using the semi-clear plastic courtesy cup out of an adherence to social mores that was weird considering they were the only two people in the world. Just as politely, he brought a similar cup back for Sylar, unasked. "So of course, like an idiot, I came home and started asking way too many questions. Dad wasn't there at first, so I went through his study and called his financial manager, Mr. Wilson. Even though he didn't tell me much of anything, Dad still fired him and made sure I knew it was my fault. That just asking too many questions had ruined this other guy's life. Or rather, led to my dad trying to punish me by ruining someone else's life. That's all it was to him – someone else's life was just a tool to try to intimidate me."

"That's when-" Sylar paused, evaluating the wisdom of blurting out something he knew only from Nathan's memories, but Peter seemed okay with it at the moment. It wasn't like Sylar was claiming them as his own, which was when Peter reacted the worst. "That was when you had the big fight with him, about Linderman."

"Yeah. He was laundering mob money. That's what it all came down to. It started in Vegas, went through waves of investment and reinvestment, and came out as untraceable, cleaned cash."

"Which bought my house."

Peter glared at him, nose wrinkling slightly as his fingers curled into fists. Sylar leaned back, mouth opening in slack-jawed confusion at the sudden change in mood. Peter drew in a deep, carefully controlled breath, pushed himself off from the table stiffly, and stalked away.

Sylar exhaled as the glass door shut behind Peter with an incongruously cheery tinkle from the bell over it. He was glad the slip hadn't resulted in anything worse, but sorry the conversation was over. He frowned at his half-eaten ice cream, then tossed it into the trash unfinished. i_So. How a person gains their money means a lot to him. That's useful to know. I don't think he'd approve of me making gold, but I bet he'd be fine with me restoring timepieces./i_


	45. Admiration

"Tell me about watchmaking, clock repair, all of that," Peter said. "Did you go to college for it, vo-tech or something like that?"

"My father was a watchmaker," Sylar answered, as if that explained everything.

Peter snorted. "My father was a lawyer; didn't make me one."

Sylar gave Peter a long, penetrating look. "No … no, he didn't," he said with soft wonder. Peter tilted his head in curiosity at how Sylar had taken that, but Sylar went on, "It was on the job training. Those of us in the trade tend to call it 'timepiece restoration' or 'chronograph repair'."


	46. Good Morning

Quiet steps padded back from the bathroom. Sylar lay on the bed, breathing deep and regular, feigning sleep out of deep-seated habit of deception. He'd been lying there enjoying listening to Peter shower and go about his morning routine, noises at the sink muffled by the shut door. After so long alone in the silence of a world without end, even the sound of someone brushing their teeth was a symphony beyond measure.

The steps hesitated next to the bed, making Sylar wonder what expression graced Peter's features. What face did he wear when he thought Sylar couldn't see him? Did he regret putting aside his vengeance and taking his brother's killer to his bed? There was a motion; he heard a slight rustle of clothes. Peter's breath stirred a few hairs on his forehead and Sylar strained not to react to the ticklish sensation. Soft lips laid the most gentle, tender kiss on his temple. Peter inhaled a generous draught of his scent and drew away.

Sylar's heart soared as the steps faded off towards the kitchen, quietly closing the bedroom door behind him. So that was what Peter did when no one was watching. Sylar stretched, luxuriating in the distant sounds of Peter tinkering with the coffee pot and then moving on to fixing breakfast. He didn't stop the smile from lighting up his face. Peter made him feel so special and lucky – more than any ability ever would.


	47. Dare Kiss

**A/N: This is a spinoff of More Between Us chapter 65ish (not yet published at the time of publishing Dare Kiss). The guys get drunk and play Truth or Dare on their first New Year's Eve behind the Wall, but the kiss scene didn't turn out to be part of the actual story, so I recycled it here as a Brick chapter.**

"I dare you to kiss me." Sylar tried to keep his face relaxed, features blank. There were too many emotions struggling underneath; Peter didn't need to know about any of them. Hope was the most sickening, but self-loathing gave it a run for its money. A kiss was a small thing, easy, almost insignificant, but would Peter do it? Was he willing to get that close?

After a long beat, Peter shrugged and leaned forward. "Sure." He put his elbows on the desk between them and extended his hands. "Stick out your hand."

Sylar snorted disdainfully. "I meant a_ real_ kiss." _Not my __**hand**__, moron._ Angry, on edge, already anticipating being turned down, Sylar's lips pressed into a thin line despite his best efforts to hide his expression. He watched as Peter thought it over. Amazingly, Peter_ was_ thinking it over and not dismissing out of hand. Of course, dismissing would mean he'd lose the game and Peter was more competitive than he liked to admit.

Peter made a sharp exhale, really studying Sylar's face, eyes going over every part of it. Sylar wondered if he was picking where to plant his lips, or deciding if it was a face comely enough to do it with. Was he reading how badly Sylar wanted this? The long pause left Sylar desperate to fidget, feeling he was being inspected, weighed, and- Peter got up, coming around the desk. Obviously, a decision had been reached.

Sylar tilted his head up as he approached. _He's going to do it?_ His mouth relaxed, tension dialing back as relief rose inside of him and hope started to win out. _I suppose it would be bad form to hang onto him and get a proper kiss. Plus he'd probably hit me. But would it be worth it?_

"Closed mouth," Peter said, leaving Sylar to wonder if that was a question or a statement of intention. And whose mouth needed to be closed? The idea that he might have gotten some tongue if he'd only worded his dare more explicitly was maddening. He was distracted from it soon enough. Peter's right hand came down on Sylar's right knee, on the top at first but then immediately sliding in … and up. Sylar glanced down quickly, but there wasn't time to react. Peter's left hand came to rest on his right shoulder, giving him balance as he leaned in.

_He's definitely doing it._ Sylar's eyes widened dramatically as the reality and immediacy of it hit him. Peter's scent wafted ahead of him, an air so delicious he wanted to drink it in. Mere lungfuls didn't do it justice; he wanted it distilled in liquid form. Peter paused in front of him, head tilted, only an inch or two away. While Sylar wanted to lunge forward and take what was on offer, he held his place. He wanted no question of who initiated and he didn't want to look as ridiculously eager as he really was. It was only going to be a peck, he knew.

Peter's lips moved, loosening, protruding more; he was puckering up. His left hand glided up the slope of Sylar's shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers shifting to cup his head. The right settled slightly, bearing a tiny bit of weight. Peter Petrelli closed that last distance between them, eyes sliding shut as his lips pressed gently into Sylar's. Sylar inhaled deeply, keeping his own eyes open. He wanted to see this, start to finish, no matter how brief it was.

It wasn't brief. Peter's lips pulsed against his, warm and soft and human. Erotic energy flowed all up and down Sylar's spine; he felt his cock throb. His heart was pounded all of a sudden. Peter wasn't making this a fleeting thing; he was actually, really kissing him. Peter's lips made one full motion against Sylar's still ones, then he repeated it once, twice, then thrice – taking his time about it. Both of his hands moved – a slight stroking of his scalp; small circles on his inner thigh.

Peter pulled away only enough to part them, eyes opening before he came back for one last kiss. There was not a hint of revulsion, hesitance, or regret on his features. Sylar's, on the contrary, were stunned. He'd sat there unmoving, not participating, hardly even breathing the whole time. Floored was an understatement. That was everything he wanted and he'd just been given the tiniest sample. Hunger, lust, and desire roared to full life as Peter pulled away, leaving behind only a hot puff of breath to caress Sylar's lips. _MORE!_ his brain screamed at him.

Sylar's fingers scrabbled at Peter's arm, halting his departure. Peter looked back at him and smiled, smug at the degree of reaction he'd engendered. "That was a _real_ kiss." As he pulled himself free of Sylar's grip and returned to the other side of the desk, self-loathing loomed larger than every other emotion Sylar had at the moment. Peter knew what he was denying him; it was a punishment, and one that he thoroughly deserved. That small taste of heaven reminded him this really was hell.


	48. Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

**A/N: Peter and Sylar, in the Wall, are drunk and have been playing Truth or Dare. Sylar winds up the evening by fondling Peter's hair. This was a spinoff of MBU chapter 66ish.**

Peter sat in the middle of the couch, a blanket draped over his bare shoulders. Sylar still wouldn't give him his shirt back, not that he cared too much at this point. It was late; he'd lost track of how many of the high-alcohol beers they'd downed. Sylar flopped next to him, close by necessity – if Peter was in the middle of the couch, Sylar couldn't be all that far away and still be on the same piece of furniture. Peter could have moved, he supposed, but he didn't bother.

"You're okay." Sylar reached out and tousled his hair. It was a friendly, brotherly gesture that had Peter's head snapping around despite the mild compliment, which was one of the few nice things Sylar had ever said about him. He stared at Sylar, eyes intent as his mind derailed from objecting to the familiarity and into trying to remember anything else like that Sylar had said about him. Surely there'd been something. His eyes dropped and expression loosened as he thought. He didn't notice that Sylar hadn't stopped touching him.

Fingers slid along his forehead, gently carding hair back from his face. Peter twitched a little in realization, looking up with wide eyes to see Sylar's face. He looked absorbed and pleased, gaze dipping to Peter's for a brief moment to acknowledge the awareness, before going back to what he was doing – running his hands through Peter's hair, one after another. It felt sublime.

Peter blinked. _Oh. Um …_ He tried to cast his inebriated mind around to figure out what he was supposed to do about that. He didn't feel molested or violated, just weird. They'd never done this before. Sure, Sylar had asked to do it during Truth or Dare and Peter had let him, but this was just Sylar doing it without any reason. Well, any reason aside from wanting to do it. It felt fantastic, now just as it had earlier during the game. It seemed like a comforting way to wind down from the high tension that had run between them as they'd asked uncomfortable questions and coerced one another into questionable acts.

Peter turned his face down and to the side, tilting so the crown of his head was presented to Sylar's attentions. Sylar moved on to combing it back and then playing with the longest part of it at the back of Peter's head. He was fluffing it, Peter assumed, maybe raising it and letting it fall. Something. The contact was soothing, relaxing, proof that he didn't need to be on guard at all points in time. His shoulders sagged and the blanket slipped. He could feel the ends of his hair shifting against the bare skin. It gave him goose bumps and a shiver.

Sylar scooted closer, turning so that his shin was pressed against Peter's thigh and hip. The heel of his hand brushed across the top of Peter's shoulder and Peter found himself making a small noise, breathing faster. _Hm?_ He took stock of his reactions. He was aroused – not exactly bursting at the seams yet, but his skin felt tight and warm, nipples erect, other parts getting there. He could feel Sylar's breath on his upper back and hear the man … sniffing?

"Are you smelling of me?"

He'd expected denial or dissembling. Instead, Sylar answered simply, "Yes."

Peter sat there dumbly, a lot of static in his brain where he was sure he should be thinking coherently and rationally about what was going on. _Shouldn't have had so many damn beers_. Sylar had his hair in both hands and now was unmistakably rubbing his face in it. His forearms nudged against Peter's upper back as he fondled his hair.

"That's, uh, kinda erotic, don't you think?" Peter said conversationally.

"Yeesss." Separate from the drawn-out, charged word, Sylar purred. He goddamn _purred_ into the back of Peter's head.

"Unn." Peter shivered again at the barest brush of hot lips against the nape of his neck. That was one of the sexiest things he'd ever had done to him. He wanted, more than almost anything else, to turn around and respond, participate, engage and kiss and caress and … He stood up, abandoning the blanket and pulling away. There was one thing he wanted more than even this, and that was his integrity. Sylar was not an option, no matter how much he purred into Peter's scalp and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. "I gotta go." He went for his jacket, not about to stop and argue with Sylar about the stolen shirt.

Sylar looked bereft, stricken, and immensely frustrated. Mouth gaping, he looked like he was trying to find words. Peter didn't wait for that to happen. Jacket on but still unbuttoned, he was out the door before Sylar could do more than call his name and order him not to leave. The order made the departure easier. Peter rattled down the stairs, rapidly waking up from the alcoholic fugue he'd fallen into. The cold air outside snapped him to his senses even more. What would Nathan think if he knew about what had just happened?

The scalding thought was followed by one quite different – Claude telling him, 'Your friends, your mother, your brother. No wonder your head's all clogged … You still see yourself through their eyes, is that it?' _But what if I didn't?_ It was radical enough that Peter stopped, turned, and looked back at Sylar's lit window. The idea of casting aside the past and taking Sylar as he was today, free of the baggage, ran through his mind. It would be a true, genuine second chance for the man. Maybe that was what Sylar needed …

Peter shook his head and resumed walking. Claude had been wrong about almost everything.


	49. Regret

Sylar was watching with equal parts fascination and revulsion as Peter beat the crap out of the punching bag. Taped hands hammered against the polymer surface, pummeling it mercilessly. Repeated, shocking blows left it creaking and swaying, Peter's body jerking with the force he was channeling into his fists. Sylar knew Peter was imagining that was him receiving the beat down, Sylar's face being pulped and left bloody – or maybe worse. His eyes fell and shoulders sagged that someone felt that way about him. Sylar's hands twisted helplessly at the towel he held. There was no way to bring back Nathan or undo what he'd done. The slamming sounds and guttural grunts continued. Peter hardly ever hit him; never gave him the torture he so thoroughly deserved for all the deaths and misery he'd caused. The few times he had been struck, Sylar had felt a flash of vindication, followed by a sick twist in his gut at how much he wanted to take the easy way out. Living with what he'd done, no way to expiate it, was a worse punishment than enduring any amount of abuse Peter might want to dish out. It left him feeling two inches tall. Even if Peter hurt him worse by leaving Sylar to wallow in his regret, unforgiven and unworthy, it didn't mean Peter was free of the impulse to tear him apart – an impulse he was _still_ venting on the innocent punching bag.

Peter was finally winding down from his … fit. Rough, sobbing breaths were torn from his throat as he hugged the bag for balance, arms and shoulders shaking. Sylar rose, padding over with deliberate noise to his steps despite how much he wanted to be quiet and go unnoticed, or maybe crawl off under a rock and die there. Peter's head pulled to the side, expression raw, mouth agape, eyes, nose, and cheeks reddened. Tears and sweat mingled on his face. A faint stamp of fury and disgust stained his features – just to see Sylar brought that look, like he was a bug Peter would gladly step on. Sylar gave a brittle smile and reached up to towel off Peter's face. Peter pulled away from the touch, putting his forehead against the bag, but he didn't pull away further than that and for that Sylar was grateful.

He still frowned at being denied that opportunity to give the comfort he wanted to provide. Instead, he wiped down the back of Peter's neck and over his arms. Peter's shoulders shook a few more times, but he didn't try to shake off Sylar's touch. He finally straightened, turning to stare at Sylar with an anger as deep as the Nathan-shaped hole in his heart. Sylar, who knew how to fix so much, felt useless in the face of this. He'd taken away the man's brother and by Sylar's mere identity, he took away even the facsimile Peter might have had. "I'm sorry." He was sorry for his whole existence.

Peter shook his head, lips pursed, teeth set against one another. "That doesn't even begin." Still breathing hard, he walked around Sylar and headed for the showers.

Sylar's fist closed and opened over and over on the towel as he stood still facing the slightly swinging punching bag. "I know," he said softly.


	50. Regret 2

**A/N: I see this as happening about a year after Peter entered the Wall world. You can read this as something that happens a few days after the first 'Regret' story, or as a stand-alone. They're different ways of me working out the same concept, which is Sylar making a small step from being less self-absorbed.**

"I wanna know how it happened – Nathan's death."

Sylar paused, ham and cheese sandwich halfway to his mouth. Peter had been avoiding him for the last couple days, although this time the parting of ways wasn't due to an argument. Sylar assumed it had been a bad move to tell him it was the one-year anniversary of Nathan's demise. Peter seemed determined to be oblivious to the passage of time. "Good afternoon to you, too," he snarked.

Peter slid out the chair on the opposite side of the table, plopping himself down as if he'd been invited. "Tell me."

Sylar raised his brows at the rude demand. "Right now?"

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it as he looked at the untouched sandwich still midway to being Sylar's lunch. He sighed. "No, fine. Finish eating. Sorry. I'll wait." He looked away and crossed his arms, fingers moving restlessly as nervous energy ran through his frame.

Sylar looked from his sandwich to where Peter's fingers were clenching erratically against his bicep. There was no way he could eat like this, with Peter hovering impatiently. He set the sandwich down. "I'm not that hungry at the moment," he said dryly. "What did you want to know?"

Peter turned back to face him, sparing the sandwich a glance, but accepting Sylar's offer to talk instead of eat. "I want to know how Nathan died."

"I killed him." Sylar straightened, stiffening, waiting for the expected fury or even physical altercation that usually followed the bald reminder of Sylar's role in the world. He refused to sugar-coat it and he'd refused for all of the last year. Sometimes he'd thrown it in Peter's face, other times it just slipped out. It was his life, his identity, his past – and he'd talk about it whether Peter hit him for it or not.

Peter breathed in deeply, then expelled the air. No attack was launched. "I know. I want to know … how it happened."

Sylar tilted his head to one side in curiosity. Peter had seen the corpse. It didn't take a nurse or a paramedic to know a person didn't do well with their veins severed. (Sylar would have done arteries, but he'd learned the hard way that they were more messy.) But if Peter wanted it blurted out, then Sylar would oblige. "He knocked me out the window and dropped me. I caught myself after a few floors and tried to slam him into the building. He had more control over his course than I expected, and he went through a window." He paused then. Peter was watching, leaning forward with narrowed, intent eyes as he listened with every part of his being. Sylar didn't (yet) regret what he'd done – it had been simple self defense, after all, maybe with a little self-indulgence tossed in but Nathan deserved it for being such a stupid, arrogant prick (and if they were willing to strip his identity after, then it made his sins equal at the least) – he still recognized what effect this might have on _Peter_. By way of affecting Peter, it affected Sylar and this roundabout concern for his own welfare gave him an unprecedented interest in that of someone else. If he hurt Peter's feelings, then Sylar would, in turn, suffer – maybe not physically, but at least in Peter's willingness to talk with him and tolerate his presence. Perhaps it was better to be gentle, if he could figure out what that was.

"What happened next?"

Sylar leaned back, asking quietly, "Why do you want to know this, Peter? You know how it ends."

Peter sighed, pursing his lips, and leaned back in mirror to Sylar's body language. "Because … things … so many things that I've believed haven't turned out to be true. I _think_ I know what happened, but I want to _know_. I want to know for real. You were there. You know what you did and why. I need to know that."

Sylar's face stilled, becoming an expressionless mask. "I'm evil, he got in my way, so I killed him."

Peter shook his head, brushing that aside like it was unimportant. He leaned forward again. "Tell me what happened."

Now Sylar sighed, looking away and then back. He had no idea how to relate 'gently' to someone that you killed their brother on a whim, when it would have been just as easy to incapacitate him in any number of other ways. Peter was looking at him, expecting an answer, demanding one. Buckling under the unfamiliar social pressure, Sylar reverted to 'blunt'. He knew blunt. Maybe 'blunt' would make Peter quit looking at him like that. "I followed him in. He got to his feet. I cut his throat. That's it."

"With telekinesis?"

Sylar nodded, brows drawing together as he stared at the table and hunched his shoulders a little. The whole conversation made him unhappy, but mostly it was the realization that his mode of communication was all wrong for this sort of thing. He prided himself on being able to play roles and be what people wanted him to be, but that wasn't going to work here. It just wasn't. Peter didn't want an act. He wanted the truth. But the truth was going to hurt him, and it wasn't in Sylar's interest to hurt him, so how was he supposed to handle this?

Peter wasn't done yet. "What was he doing when you did that?"

Sylar shrugged and looked off to the side guiltily. Once Sylar stopped looking at it from his own point of view, with consequences and ex post facto justifications, it started to look pretty indefensible. He could see how this had to look to Peter and he could even, now, see why Peter wanted to know. Nathan … hadn't been doing much of anything. "He … he took a step towards me." It was a really flimsy reason to unleash lethal force on someone, especially when you were able to regenerate.

"Then you cut his throat. And that was," Peter swallowed roughly, "all you did?"

It took Sylar a moment to realize Peter was asking if he'd tortured him somehow. He shook his head in answer to the unspoken, then realized what it looked like given Peter's specific question. "Yes, that's all I did. It was … it was quick." At least he had that much. He hadn't tortured or molested or done anything sick and perverted. He wondered if Peter had ever asked Claire about the time he'd had her alone in the hotel room before the Petrelli brothers had shown up. He hunched in on himself even more determinedly. He felt so worthless. He knew he'd failed.

Peter gave one nod. Voice clipped, he said, "Okay. That's what I wanted to know," and rose to leave.

"Peter, I ..." He didn't know what to say. He felt … sorry, in a different way than he had before. Before, he'd been sorry that killing Nathan was clearly coming back to affect him, Sylar, negatively. His concern was selfishly motivated. Now he was thinking through how Peter had to feel about it, thinking about how that was going to affect them both in future. It was definitely going to affect it. In the past he'd just walked away from the people he'd hurt, or he'd killed them. That wasn't applicable here. If he wanted a connection, then this … his past, and how Peter was affected by it, how he saw him as a result … it was a problem and not one Sylar knew how to solve.

"No. You were right. But I needed to know for sure." Peter stalked off stiffly, the diner door swinging shut behind him.

Sylar pushed the uneaten sandwich away, stomach churning as the meaning of Peter's parting words sunk in. He was evil. He didn't want to be.


	51. A Good Death

**Title:** A Good Death  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar, Peter  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Words:<strong> 400  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sylar contemplates the role Peter fills in his life.

As a jailor, a torturer, or just a companion, Peter was better than the others Sylar had had. As a jailor, he was consistent and he didn't abuse his privileges, the main one of which was the freedom to leave. If he couldn't leave, that was pretty funny, but Sylar preferred to believe Peter couldn't leave _with him_. It meant any continuation of Peter's presence was on Sylar's behalf. Probably wishful thinking and he knew it, but he liked to think Peter was stubborn enough to imprison himself with Sylar if he couldn't bring Sylar out with him. It was possible. After all, Peter was stubborn (and stupid) enough to put himself here in the first place without making sure ahead of time he'd be able to get out.

As a torturer, he was lousy, which was just as Sylar liked it. Most of the physical damage Peter dished out was while they were both alert, aware, and combative, able to respond in a mutual fashion. The only exception was the occasional surprise attack, or if Sylar really pissed him off, Peter would occasionally hit him a few more times even if Sylar wasn't fighting back – both happened less often as time passed, and both required Sylar to first antagonize his keeper. Sylar had had far worse, tormentors prone to drugging him to unconsciousness, strapping him down, and mutilating his brain. A few of Peter's fists to his face were regular love taps in comparison.

While Peter did not (yet) put out, Sylar would have to rank him as a more enjoyable person to spend time with than even Elle. They had more things in common. Were it ever possible for him to regain powers, Sylar was sure he'd pick up Peter's in a heartbeat – empathizing with him was easy. Peter was a better conversationalist, having led a much more normal life than Elle had ever been allowed. His personality was better – steadier, less given to malice and caprice. He wasn't trying to turn Sylar evil, although his desire for Sylar to be a decent person was clear. Sylar didn't mind that too much. Peter's motivations were known and had been from the start. The honesty was refreshing.

At times, he was even sorry he'd killed Nathan. Not for Nathan's sake, but for Peter's. But most of the time he was glad. Killing Nathan had gotten rid of Nathan (definitely a good thing) and kicked off the sequence of events that brought Peter to him. That made it completely worthwhile.


	52. Making Love

**Title:** Making Love  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Words:<strong> 850  
><strong>Summary:<strong> After the sex, Peter makes love.

Peter roused himself from the post-coital bliss, rolling and lifting himself slowly onto hands and knees so he could crawl closer to his new lover. Sylar, more-or-less spread-eagled in careless relaxation, pulled his limbs in a little in mild defensiveness, eyes scanning over Peter's face. Peter gave him a gentle smile for reassurance, then propped himself with one hand on the bed next to Sylar's pillow, the other taking Sylar's chin and holding him in place. Sylar stayed perfectly still for that, not even stiffening; it was something Peter had noticed – most people jumped when surprised, but Sylar stilled. Sylar had given him free rein to use him as he would. Peter expected he'd like this.

He leaned in slowly, tongue moving out to flick at the skin between chin and lower lip, tasting the salt and mild residue of the many reckless, passionate kisses they'd already shared. Sylar sighed, lids drooping and hands moving slightly as he broke from the artificial immobility. Peter moved in slightly more, guided by instinct and desire rather than any conscious thought, and sucked a bit of Sylar's luscious lower lip into his mouth. He kneaded it between lips and with tongue four or five times before dragging over it with his teeth, accompanied by a growl.

Sylar moaned in delighted pleasure, his hands finding the bare skin of Peter's sides and touching. Peter straddled him, adjusting to holding himself up with both arms so he could take as long as he wanted at this. He leaned in again like a push-up, taking the left side of Sylar's lower lip and repeating the process. Breathy, faint whines were music to his ears, encouraging him to move on to the right and then the upper lip. Sylar's mouth gaped open for him, hands cupping his sides and hips shifting in response. Peter made a circuit, sucking and nipping at every portion of the lips before him, treated to a deep, huffing exhalation of appreciation on Sylar's part.

Peter lifted and gave him a lazy, crooked smile, something of a smirk – too relaxed and full of himself to put the extra work in to straighten his face. He'd seen people stoned out of their skulls with pupils less dilated than Sylar's were now. He dipped back to give a lingering, sucking kiss to Sylar's left cheek, nudging him with his nose to get him to turn his face. Sylar was so eager, so willing to receive affection. He was practically squirming like a happy puppy. It made Peter ecstatic, heady with second-hand joy. He savored the difference between the smooth skin higher up on Sylar's cheek and the stubble below. It wasn't long, as Sylar had shaved only that morning, but the busy growth stiffened and thickened the skin, making the surface already rough against Peter's lips and tongue. He tasted all the way to Sylar's ear, sucking in the lobe to a louder, less-inhibited groan from Sylar.

"Ha," Peter puffed directly into his ear, provoking an unexpected, unsexy clutching and Sylar to turn his head, eyes wide and uncertain again, to look at him. "Easy," Peter crooned. "I won't do it again."

Sylar's eyes cast over him uncertainly, but the trust reappeared faster this time. Peter leaned in to give the earlobe a tiny, sedate peck before lifting and looking at Sylar again, this time getting the acquiescence he wanted as Sylar's eyes slid mostly shut and he turned his face to make his ear more accessible even though Peter was willing to move elsewhere entirely if that was what Sylar wanted.

It didn't seem to be what he wanted. "Yeah," Peter breathed next to it, running the tip of his nose up and down the outer rim as he stayed tuned to Sylar's responses with hyper-alertness. "You don't like people blowing in your ear?"

Sylar shrugged with a tension that hadn't been there a moment before. "I don't know," he said, his voice small and frustrated. But this was leagues ahead of where their communication had been a few days ago. It was all such a careful, high-stakes dance.

Peter ran his nose up and down a few more times, then turned and rubbed lightly with his cheek. The tension drained out of his lover and the hands that had become motionless on his sides started moving again. Peter put his face parallel with Sylar's and simply breathed – not into his ear, just next to it, scouting out the territory that Sylar wanted to mark 'keep out'.

Sylar chuckled, wrapping his arms around Peter and pulling them close, skin to skin from head to groin. "I know what you're doing, Peter. You're checking. My ears aren't like yours. It was just … a lot at once."

Peter burrowed his face against the side of Sylar's head, reveling in the scent, the texture of the fine hairs, the warmth against him, strong arms around him, a nearly erect cock between them – Sylar was ready for round two, Peter wasn't there yet, but he would be soon. "Don't be afraid to tell me your limits."


	53. Keepsake

Sylar gathered the bit of detritus from the bathroom trash, carrying it into the kitchen where he placed it in a waiting saucer of water. It was a wad of hairs Peter had thoughtfully removed from the bathtub drain after his shower (convincing him to shower at Sylar's place had been more difficult than expected, but it had been accomplished). Now Sylar leaned over his odd prize, rinsing it gently from one saucer to another, changing the water patiently until he was sure he'd removed all contaminating residue of soap and shampoo. That done, he sorted them using the delicacy that served him well as a watchmaker. He arranged the fragile filaments on a paper towel, one next to the other, stretched out to dry. An even thirty head hairs he recovered, along with one he believed to be a pubic hair. Two of the longer hairs looked suspicious – a little too light. They caught the sunlight with a golden sheen rather than the dark gloss of Peter's. Those, and the short, kinked hair, went back in the trash. Once dried, the twenty-eight remaining were carefully stacked across a pair of waxed threads. When they were all arranged, he tied off the threads to bundle them into one tiny lock of silky fibers.

With a pleased, close-mouthed smile, Sylar moved his treasure to his work desk. There, he dug through a jar of watch parts until he found what he was looking for – a pocket watch that had had its internal mechanisms removed. Into this empty case, he carefully spooled the strands, looping them to fit within their new home. Taking care not to catch any of the hairs in the closure, he snapped the case shut and slid the watch under his pillow for safe-keeping. This way, even if Peter disappeared tomorrow, he'd still have a part of him, something to prove he'd been here … something to prove Sylar wasn't crazy, or alone, after all.


	54. Simple Questions

**Summary: Prompted by Peter's questions, Sylar makes a journey to self-acceptance and beyond.**

It was the gentle pleadings that broke Sylar - Peter begging him for answers when he had none. The recriminations, accusations, and silent treatment had been easier to take, but eventually Peter just wanted to know the truth. Sylar had thought the worst torture of this hell was the oppressive, relentless loneliness of three, long years, but Peter showed him he'd been mistaken. At times, Sylar almost wished for a return of the quiet, measured out by the steady ticking of the clocks. They demanded nothing of him … unlike Peter.

In Peter's defense, there was nothing else in the world to distract him from the subject of his inquiry. It was his whole point here and sometimes Sylar wondered if Peter really existed, or if he was some demon sent to carry out the next stage of torment. Peter had no friends or family or even complete strangers here who could capture part or all of his attention, so he fixed it entirely on Sylar. His only project was getting closure.

And so:_ Why?_ The question was asked over and over in endless variations. It was profoundly irritating in both its simplicity and difficulty. Sylar understood better than he wanted to how annoyed parents became at curious toddlers who learned that cursed word. Like a child, Peter wanted to understand. He was trying to wrap his mind around why a person – any person, but Sylar in particular – would kill another (and in Sylar's case, another and another and another ...) He understood anger and a desire to hurt, but a desire to end, to terminate? It was foreign and so he asked.

At first, Sylar fended him off with anger and sarcasm, his sword and shield against the emotional assault. Peter would retire to nurse his wounds, but he never gave up. It was like he could sense the weakness underneath Sylar's armor of indifference and was determined to expose it. Enduring the questioning wasn't the price of admission to sharing Peter's company. If it had been, Sylar might have stayed away entirely. Instead, it was the requirement for a different sort of proximity, a more emotional one, something Sylar wanted more than mere presence. Actually, at the bottom of it all, Sylar _did_ want to be understood; he just didn't want to answer for what he'd done. Yet despite his desire to writhe and twist away from responsibility, he couldn't figure out how to get the openness without exposing himself.

The real hell began when he genuinely started trying to find the truth Peter wanted. Neither of them was satisfied with glib answers. As much as Sylar would have liked to avoid the subject entirely, if he was going to give an answer, then he was going to give an honest one. But the truth wasn't simply a matter of speaking it, or as simple as identifying a warped gear within a watch. He couldn't just pick out an isolated thing that had gone wrong and caused the past; there was no stepped-on butterfly he could point to. It was more complicated by far. There were so many times where he hadn't examined why he'd chosen one act over another. While yes, the exigencies of circumstance favored one path more than the others, there were deeper reasons. His own mind framed his choices and that limited his possible solutions. Why was he comfortable with violence to the level that he had performed? Where did the uncaring come from? How deep did it run? What other aspects of his being did it affect? In the end, was he … salvageable?

The worst were the questions softly spoken, breathed out in cautious whispers like Peter was afraid to speak them too loudly. The answers were often ugly and increasingly, Sylar couldn't divorce himself from them or pretend that anyone would have done the same in his place. He was special, bitter pill though that was to swallow. His actions had defined the person he was. If they were menacing and evil, then so must he be as well. It wasn't how he wanted to be and he mourned to be faced with it. He didn't want to be the kind of person that no one in the world wanted to be near. He tried to fight it, but he was trapped by things that had already happened, impossible to undo. He didn't want to be … bad, a lost cause, unworthy of everything. He wanted to be good and Peter's questioning of his soul made him so angry he contemplated murder yet again. Yet he couldn't lash out without proving the very thing he was trying to disprove about himself. It was his helplessness, the futility of it all, that broke him.

* * *

><p>"I don't know!" Sylar burst out, but the high emotion sounding through his words was desperation and grief, not rage. His hands shook and his shoulders threatened to. He felt so impotent and incompetent, so stupid and dense and uninformed about his own inner workings. He felt like he was crumbling, like a wall that had been battered on for too long, finally giving way at the masonry seams. He was so lost in his own misery that Peter settling next to him on the couch was startling. The cushion dipped and by natural law of gravity, he tilted towards Peter. They were touching all down the thigh and briefly at the shoulder … and then Peter was twisting towards him, not done yet with the Petrelli space invasion. Peter raised his arms and slid them over Sylar's shoulders, ignoring his stiffness as he guided Sylar to turn to match him, and then wrapping around to pull him close.<p>

Sylar stopped breathing entirely for long seconds and when he resumed, his breaths were shallow. _What is he doing?!_ his mind squeaked about the sudden, unprecedented, and unasked-for-but-wonderful contact. What was happening seemed clear enough, though. It was a hug. A simple hug. Or maybe a complex one, Sylar didn't know. What he knew was that he could feel the warmth of Peter's body through his shirt and smell the oil of his skin in a much more concentrated nasal draught than he was usually gifted by in the closest passage he might make. The reality of Peter's nearness was enough to shock him out of most of his wretched thoughts. _He's hugging me. Why would he hug me? Is he attracted to me? Am I sexy this way, almost in tears? Is that it? No, I don't think it is. I must look like a child, like a little boy he wants to comfort. Is that so he can lord it over me and be more powerful?_

"It's okay," Peter murmured. "It's okay. You're not alone. I'm here, I'm listening, I'm paying attention. We can figure it out. No hurry." Peter's words were always so soft when Sylar was upset – soft on the outside, but still hard on the inside. Peter wasn't going to let him off the hook for a few tears. Taking a break wasn't the same thing as quitting. Sylar knew that and it made him respect Peter all the more for it.

He brought his own hands up to Peter's sides, fingers twiddling senselessly with the seams of Peter's jacket. What the man said was soothing, reminding him of what a relief it was that he had someone who would listen to him at all, despite the frustrating nature of the inquiries. The embrace certainly wasn't brief, either. Peter was stroking his back with firm, steady sweeps of his right hand, the left exerting pressure and letting him know he was right where Peter wanted him to be. Sylar drew in a deep breath and let it out. _It's like he's petting me, like a dog._ Sylar relaxed. _I can play this role. If that's what he wants … if that's what gets me this_. He swallowed and leaned into the posture, turning his head and laying it on Peter's shoulder.

In the choice of which direction to face, he opted for maximum intimacy just like the rest of his life was marked with extremes. He put his nose against Peter's neck, facing him rather than the more usual facing away. He could feel the tension that went through Peter at his position – the stroking on his back interrupted for a moment - and Sylar felt a spasm of fear that Peter would shove him away for taking the liberty. Regardless of what Peter did, it sure as hell felt good to be held. It felt nice. It thrummed through his bones and made his heart rattle his chest with all the heavy thumping it was doing. The angles were awkward and his spine was twinging from leaning weird, but it was completely worth it. He sighed, knowing that some of his breath blew hot against Peter's skin. Strangely, that seemed to calm Peter, who tightened his hold and shifted his hips a little to face him more directly, resuming the comforting stroking.

A moment later, they were swaying slightly as Peter rocked him slowly. Sylar snuggled in, all too aware that he might never get another chance at this. He'd been this close to other people, but the truth that Peter was trying to be kind to him was finally filtering through his formidable defenses. He could try to pretend to himself that Peter was dominance-tripping or treating him like a pet or child, but his logical mind had sifting through the probable motivations and kept coming back to one very core to Peter's being – he wanted to help. He was over here hugging Sylar because he wanted to help him.

Peter tolerated the hug far longer than Sylar would have expected. Long minutes, more than a quarter hour. It felt like an eternity to spend arm-locked with someone on the couch. And because he didn't think he'd ever get this again and he might as well go for everything, seizing every experience possible and claiming it for his own, when Peter shrugged his shoulder and went to gently push Sylar away, Sylar lifted his head and swooped in to kiss. Peter was not so slow that he couldn't have reacted. Sylar knew that. He was gambling, going for the long shot, pushing the limits like he always did. He was forcing Peter to choose between shoving him away brusquely or … what Peter did. At the last second, he did nothing. Peter sat there and allowed Sylar plant his lips over his own, for one brief kiss that Peter ended with a more definitive, but still not rough, push.

It had been years since Sylar had had a kiss. It wasn't like it was something he required for survival, but it was something he hungered for – to be close to someone, to be accepted, to have a connection that was real and honest. He'd never had that, not in the way he wanted, not in the way he could almost taste from Peter. All their talking had created this tenuous link between them that was just waiting to become reality. His fingers bunched the fabric at Peter's sides, not wanting to let him get away while knowing he had to eventually.

Peter eyed Sylar warily and stood, forcing Sylar to loose his fingers and let the man slide out of his grip. Peter gave him a parting pat on the shoulder that was nothing like the stern slap of rejection Sylar would have expected. _He … he let me! Let me? Jesus, he even started it! What does that mean? Does it mean he wants me? Or just that he doesn't think I'm beyond help? More importantly, can I make him do that again?_ Yearning eyes followed Peter across the room, hyper-alert to the smallest nuance, not that it helped.

There followed the rest of the afternoon, the evening, and the next morning as Sylar struggled to figure out how to replicate the situation where Peter would hug on him and hold still for kissing. He hungered for that shred of approval, that teasing glimpse of acceptance, the hint that his explanations were satisfactory. He tried being forward, imagining things had changed between them and touching was welcome now. It was not; Peter shut him down. He tried being persistent; Peter threatened to leave. Sylar submitted completely and Peter stayed. He tried offering more information about himself, but they'd already covered what came to him easily. The rest was harder. He tried more tears, but they were fake and Peter was on to him. As a result of that last stunt, he was left alone for the night, hoping his bout of acting hadn't ruined his chances. He hoped Peter understood why he was suddenly all over him. He was an empath, after all, and that was supposed to mean something even if Sylar hadn't been able to puzzle out what.

It was a miserable night, which was fucked up because he'd had more mutual friendliness in that one long hug than he'd had ever. He thought he ought to be happy. He ought to be grateful. He ought to be satisfied. But he wasn't. He tossed and turned and felt his aloneness more keenly than he ever had while Peter was in this world with him. He obsessed over every detail of the day, trying to figure out exactly what he'd done and when, that he could do it again to get the same result, or even anything close to it. It wasn't like Peter ever stayed the night, but he couldn't help but think that Peter's departure had gone badly and that he'd pushed it too far with the false sorrow.

The morning found him itchy-eyed and sweaty-skinned, but the dawn light gave him an excuse to get out of bed and stop wallowing. Peter was often in a better mood after getting away from him for a while (sad commentary though that was, all by itself; Sylar still looked forward to exploiting it). Sylar sought him out at breakfast, nearly falling all over himself to ingratiate himself. His nocturnal cogitations had convinced him that Peter wanted to be in charge, he wanted Sylar submissive and … vulnerable. Not that he wanted Sylar to be weak, but when Sylar was, Peter was most apt to get close to him, lend a helping hand, gentle his words, and handle him carefully. His brain was working feverishly to concoct whatever scheme was necessary to win him a place in the ranks of human beings worthy of friendly association.

"Stop. Stop, Sylar."

He pulled up short from trying to bus Peter's side of the table. Was Peter not done eating?

"Is this about the hug yesterday?"

Sylar looked away, trying to think of whether he should agree or not. Peter's voice was level enough, if a little exasperated, so there wasn't much clue there about how he felt towards Sylar's obsession with the embrace. The kiss wasn't being mentioned at all. His eyes darted back to Peter and fixed on him attentively, opting to say nothing and thus reduce his chance of incriminating himself.

Peter stood, pushed his chair in properly, and stepped close. He took the washcloth from Sylar's hand and dropped it on the table, sliding his hand between Sylar's side and arm – first the right, then the left. "Come here." Sylar hugged him back immediately, tucking his head in close to the side of Peter's, feeling the fine, dark, silky hair bunch and shift under his cheek, the faint smell of shampoo in his nostrils. He trembled and squeezed briefly, feeling a profound sense of relief wash through him as Peter sighed and relaxed against him in turn. He was so solid, like a rock supporting the lighthouse which shone its beacon over turbulent waters and through shroud of fog, guiding those who had wandered astray to safe harbor. His strength seeped into Sylar and showed him peace.

"Hey," Peter said softly, speaking into his shoulder, "I know you've been working really hard, doing a lot of soul-searching. Just want you to know, I'm right here with you. We'll figure it out." Sylar squeezed again, wishing he could pull Peter inside of himself, envelope the guy completely so he'd never leave. But too soon, Peter pulled away, gave him a friendly pat, and directed them on to morning errands.

* * *

><p>Twice within twenty-four hours, though – that wasn't coincidence. Sylar stalked Peter all morning, crowding too close and trying to touch him. Sometimes he covered it as happenstance; sometimes he didn't bother. Peter gave him a few shy smiles at first, but they faded as Sylar continued to push for as much as he could get. It wasn't until they returned to the apartment for lunch, well past noon, that he realized he'd taken it a bit too far. Peter stepped to the side and refused to go up the stairs first. Scandalized and concerned that he was ruining the best thing he had going for him, Sylar backed off with an effort. He needed to quit looking at Peter and start looking at himself. It was his change that had drawn Peter near, after all. If he wanted that again, he needed to change more. Lunch was awkward and quiet as Sylar ruminated on the new topic.<p>

After the dishes were cleared away, he returned to his seat and brought up the subject himself, rather than waiting for Peter to ask the usual questions. "I know we've gone over this before. A lot. I did it because I could; because I could get away with it. And I know now that's not the real answer. I thought anyone would do it, everyone wanted to, it was natural selection. None of that is the answer, because the real answer is underneath: why would I think that?

"I can point to stories of bullies in middle school and high school teachers playing favorites – anybody but me; I was ignored by everyone but the bullies. I can talk about the very essence of some of us having extraordinary powers and everyone else not – how it seemed like so many didn't deserve what they'd been gifted with. I could even argue that by virtue of having abilities, we have a moral imperative to use them to their fullest, even if that means abusing other people."

He looked up at Peter, his patient, attentive audience, for a long moment, then away again. "I know. We've been through this already. All that and more – dissected my motivations, cracked open my past, ruptured every flimsy rationalization I've used to defend actions that are indefensible. No matter what I say, there are still people dead and others hurt."

He sighed, shoulders sagging in defeat. "If I squinted, I was the archetypical hero, right down to the wise, old mentor who dies in the course of the story, but not after imparting to me the path I was to take – in this case, in the shape of a list. Fate had written everything out already, literally. It was all excused because it was 'destiny'. It's easier to take when you let me slap a coat of heroic paint on it and call it good. Hell, easier to talk about if you'd just admit that I'm evil."

"You're not evil."

Sylar looked up at Peter, meeting steadfast eyes that didn't give an inch on this. Not anymore. At first, Peter had entertained the idea, but even then it had seemed half-hearted. It wasn't long before he rejected it entirely and refused to countenance it. Sylar was not a bad guy in Peter's eyes and how he'd made that transformation was a mystery to Sylar. Peter had judged him human and possessed of all human faculties, both the frailties and the strengths. It hadn't meant the questioning had changed much. Peter still wanted to know why.

"Killing … wasn't something rare or exotic to my mind. I thought it was something that happened between people no matter how they felt about each other. My earliest memory was of murder – one person I had loved killing another." He laughed hollowly. "They say that kids always see things as being about them – 'Mommy and Daddy got divorced because I got bad marks in Math' – it **was** about me. That was inescapable. Everyone I cared about was dead or gone. Then it repeated twenty years later – Mommy dead, Daddy gone.

"Why would I care about these people, Peter, when the people who were supposed to love me turned on me like that?" His voice was pleading, looking for a reason, but Peter wasn't there to give him answers. He couldn't, anyway. This was Sylar's trial to endure. He stared at the floor, looking for an answer, stumbling through the dark. "I loved them – my parents. I wanted to love … others, anyone, really. I wanted … to love, to be … loved." Tears threatened again and he pressed the heel of his hand into one eye socket. "But there was no one there who cared. I was meaningless and therefore I thought everyone else was, too. For once in my life, I'd show them that they couldn't ignore me. I was angry at all those people who had things I wanted – more than just the abilities, they had lives and loved ones and jobs and _meaning_," he spat out viciously, because that was the core of it. "They thought they were important and I was so sure I wasn't. I thought killing them made me important. It showed them how powerful I was and how wrong and insignificant they were. I didn't care about options or alternatives. I didn't look for any other way to get their powers because the bloody way served all my interests. All I cared about was lashing out and getting away with it. I was going to make everyone hurt for ignoring me and that's the most selfish, stupid, and callous thing imaginable." He shook his head. "I see that now, but it doesn't matter. I've done what I've done. I deserve what I …" He shook his head again, pressing thumbs into tearing eyes. "Someone else in my position would have done something different. They would have tried harder. They wouldn't have killed. They would have stopped themselves." He made a dry chuckle. "But it wasn't someone else; it was me."

He looked up at Peter, realizing something and wondering why he hadn't seen it before. "You're not going to get the answer you want," he said bleakly. "There's no explanation, no cause and effect. I was there and someone else wasn't; I'm the sort of person who turns into a killer under those pressures and other people aren't." He looked down and gave a brief loft of his brows, thinking of his biological father, of Arthur Petrelli, Noah Bennet, and various others. "Well, some other people are, too, but that's just how we are. There's no 'why' to this, Peter. The 'why' is … because I am who I am." He sniffled. "I can apologize for that forever, but it doesn't change anything. Nothing changes." His shoulders sagged in resignation. This really was hell.

Long moments ticked by in stalemate. There was nothing left to do, no apology left to make, Sylar realized, and that realization finally lifted the burden from his heart. He'd done everything possible, everything within his power, to explain himself and satisfy his judge. He was sorry for being who he was, but there was nothing he could do to rewrite his past. He blinked at the table, tears clearing, as he realized, too, that acceptance wasn't something Peter could give him. The only place it could come from was within and somehow in his monologue, he'd come to terms with the motivating forces in his life. Not that he was happy with the events, but he understood them himself, finally, simple and human as they were, stripped bare of rationalizations and justifications. Some people were taller than others; some shorter; some more prone to violence than others; some less. He was both tall and prone to violence. Put in a situation that rewarded that tendency and discouraged other solutions, he'd done things many people (but not all) wouldn't do. There was no emotion or regret that would make the past right – only the open-eyed acceptance of the past as having happened exactly as it had, for the reasons that it had. If he didn't want it to happen again, then he had to accept why it had happened in the first place and work to make sure the future didn't repeat the pattern. That seemed … doable.

The dreamlike quality of the place had never been so strong as when Peter's voice, even softer and more gentle than he'd ever heard it before, invited, "Come out to the couch with me." Sylar did, watching as Peter sat to one end of the furniture and gestured for him to join him rather than sit on the opposite end. In the same tone, Peter continued, "Things _can_ change, Sylar. You have." He took a long, breathless pause, "I have." Peter leaned to the side, lifted his arm, and made an unmistakeable gesture of 'come here'. "You are who you are … and … I think that's okay. Lie with me?"

Sylar blinked in astonishment at what was being offered. He wasn't sure what to call it, but he laid down, the side of his body against Peter's, one arm folded underneath him and the other moving tentatively and unrepulsed around Peter's stomach. His head ended up on Peter's chest with Peter's arm laid over his back. He snuggled up like a little boy even though he was longer-limbed than Peter was. Some other time he would work out fine points of geometry. For now, he contact, the gesture, the offer – he didn't lust for it like he had just hours earlier, but he appreciated it no less. More, even, because now it was something freely given rather than something he'd manipulated Peter into providing. He didn't know why Peter was offering this now, but Sylar hadn't exactly been paying attention as he laid the last of his soul bare. For once, the response of another hadn't mattered as much as his own opinion of himself. He sighed and accepted what Peter gave him, eyes sliding shut in unanticipated bliss.

He could hear Peter being alive. The thrumming thump of Peter's heart wasn't that different from the ticking of a watch. After his ability manifested, people's hearts had bothered Sylar. They unsettled him with their messiness and their irregularity. They raced; they slowed; they skipped beats. It had gotten under his skin and was always there, in the back of his head when dealing with someone, quite a bit worse after getting enhanced hearing. Hearts weren't quite right – a flimsy, unreliable mechanism that begged to be fixed or scrapped altogether. But he'd never taken the time to listen as closely as he was doing now. He'd never focused on that organ the way he had on the brain. He could hear the rushing whoosh of blood being pumped with more mechanical precision than any other part of the body. Properly stimulated, the heart would continue beating even after removal from the host. It was one of the most durable parts of the body, reliable from cradle to grave even if occasionally erratic. If he could learn to appreciate the brain, Sylar thought, he should be able to comprehend the workings of the heart.

Hundreds of beats passed, Sylar's mind keeping itself busy with the puzzle. He heard the heartbeat trip faster for a fraction of a second before Peter's free hand rose. _Intention – the heart knows what the body will do before the mind even fathoms it. It's in there, an intuition, guiding the mind about what's possible and not. You can't have one without the other – no brain without the heart to sustain it._ Peter moved his hand to Sylar's cheek, stroking slowly with his thumb rather than his fingertips. _He's … letting me stay with him. Is this … is this the connection I was supposed to find?_ Sylar rolled his head to look up at Peter. He didn't look dry-eyed either, no less touched by what was happening between them.

Sylar turned his attention back to Peter's hand, rubbing his face on it in gratitude and channeling his pent-up desire to climb all over the man in that one, elaborate gesture. Peter rolled his hand so Sylar was putting his cheek and nose alternately to palm and back of hand. Sylar made a barely controlled moan at the sign of reciprocation. Through heavy, half-closed lids, he could see Peter smiling now, as though that one shared motion had changed the questions forever. After a few more caresses, the hand finally settled on his shoulder. Sylar gave him a smile that was hopeful and infatuated all at once.

"It's going to be okay," Peter told him. "Between us."

Sylar looked at him wonderingly for a moment, then lifted himself slowly. Pushing forward, he brought his face to Peter's, gaze flickering uncertainly between eyes and lips. With Maya, Elle, and Lydia, he'd taken what he wanted just like with every other part of his life – he'd seized it for himself before it could be taken away. This time, he stopped a few inches away and waited, his expression imploring Peter to prove the promise of his words with actions. Peter waited for that pause and when it came, he raised his hand to under Sylar's chin, drawing him in as he tilted his head, lips sliding into place over Sylar's, mouth moving definitely and securely against his own.

Energy shot through Sylar – and apparently through Peter, as well, because in an instant they were hurrying to change positions. Sylar broke away to raise himself as Peter rearranged to be directly beneath him, then Peter's hand curled around the back of his neck and pulled him close for a second kiss. Sylar melted over him, easing down on top of him. He felt himself stiffen almost instantly as Peter's thighs rose on either side of him, Peter's lips parting for his tongue to slip out and tease along Sylar's. It was ticklish and made him jerk, an all-over twitch that came with a hitch in his breathing and a widening of his eyes. _Oh my God … _That was as far as Sylar's thoughts could go, but his body knew what came next. His heart hammered against his ribs, a better instrument than any clock, pounding out a message more important than the passage of time – it was the existence of life.

"I want you," Peter whispered huskily in his ear. It was verbal ambrosia. What followed was less palatable. "I don't know if we're ready for this. Are you?"

Sylar wanted to agree immediately; he wanted to insist he was ready for anything Peter would allow him and the erection Peter was sporting implied Peter's body, at least, was ready for quite a bit. But the question by itself was sort of staggering. That he was even being asked his desires … It was … respectful, he realized – something he'd had very little of in his life. He was being acknowledged. His opinion, his feelings, mattered. He lifted himself up and off a few inches, getting the distance he needed to give it all of his attention. Were they, truly, ready for this level of intimacy? They were rushing into it; Sylar knew that. He'd rushed with Elle; presumably Peter had with others (Nathan believed as much). Being in a hurry didn't doom a relationship, but it could complicate it. Yet there was no one else here to make things difficult and no reason to wait until a better time. They'd already covered so much ground between them. Sylar wanted to finalize this, to do something clear and unequivocal that showed the connection between them. He didn't expect Peter to deny it, but this act would put fears to rest that hadn't even had a chance to grow yet.

Peter trusted him to know his own mind. That brought a genuine, affectionate smile to Sylar's lips and a softening around his eyes. Options considered, he answered with firm resolve, "Yes. I'm ready. Are you?"

Peter shifted slightly, eyes skimming up and down Sylar's frame. He nodded shallowly, "Yeah," and then wrapped his legs tighter around Sylar's waist, pulling them back together. Fingers curled into his flesh and thighs clamped around him securely. Peter buried his face against Sylar's neck, breath hot against sensitive skin. A shiver of rapidly building desire ran through them both. It was really going to happen! The walls around their hearts were torn asunder, light streaming through both of them and setting their souls dancing in the air, spinning away from one another in a strange, reality-twisting vertigo.

* * *

><p>Sylar blinked and jolted as he found himself in the dark, nose full of the smell of drying masonry instead of Peter's delicious scent. His abilities, all of them, stirred to life in the back of his mind as the rest of his consciousness swiftly reorganized its grip on reality. One thing was for sure – he wasn't on his couch, making out with Peter Petrelli, with a warm, sexy, and very willing body pressed to his own. The loss and change was shocking, but it was hardly the first harsh bait-and-switch he'd endured. He felt like he could actually sense his spirit shrinking. The memory of being loved seemed as unreal as anything else in the bizarre dream. <em>Matt Parkman's ability trapped me, just like Candace's did. I must have found the way out. How much of that did I make up along the way?<em> Anger surged up inside of him, along with an uncertainty as to what to do about Parkman's trick. Playing with his heart like that was one of the cruelest things he'd ever had done to him. Before he'd had his enforced siesta, he would have punished Matt in kind. But now? It felt wrong.

There was a noise outside, a faint scuffling. Sylar welcomed the excuse to act. He exerted his powers, channeling a telekinetic blast straight forward. And there was Peter, staggering back from the explosion, then moving forward to look at him as Sylar stepped out. Peter's expression showed no fear of him, regarding him in a familiar manner. Instantly, his rage died as he realized Peter's presence in the dream hadn't been a figment of his imagination. Peter was no demon conjured by an overactive mind to flog a confession out of him. He'd come to save him – could it all be true? His heart leapt to his throat and his spirit rebounded. He didn't dare push for answers, fearing it might all fall apart if he questioned it too much. What he knew for sure was that Peter had come for him, wasn't leaving him, and a few minutes later, he supported him when Matt threatened him. Peter was there, a hand on his back and a presence at his side. Sylar clung to that, remembering dimly that Peter had had a purpose beyond saving Sylar's soul. He had a mission to fulfill and if Sylar knew anything about Peter, it was that the mission would come first.

It was easily enough accomplished. The evening drew to a close without any new demand on their attention. The carnies were safe; Claire had left with the reporters. After one last, vigilant look over the dispersing crowd, Peter sidled closer and slipped his hand into Sylar's. Looking down at their joined hands, Peter rubbed his index finger back and forth. "Do you want to come back to my place?" He glanced up at Sylar then, all dark lashes and darker eyes. Peter looked away when he didn't get an immediate answer; Sylar was literally wordless at the moment. Peter shrugged with affected nonchalance, giving his hand a squeeze and adding, "It's probably best to get you out of here, in case Noah or …"

"Yes." Sylar managed to blurt. He didn't think Peter was seriously considering his safety as the reason for finding some privacy. His heart soared. He could have flown back to Peter's apartment and if he'd been able to teleport, they would have been there already. Peter squeezed his hand again and off they set. They'd held hands while flying, too, but talking while supersonic was impossible. Even though Peter had tried a few bits of sign language, neither of them knew enough to hold a conversation Watching Peter smile shyly and finger-spell his name as they'd rushed through the sky had soothed Sylar's insecurities and charmed him. It allowed him to be patient and stay focused on what he needed to do rather than what he wanted. For there to even be a difference between those two was an exotically new flavor of candy.

With the apartment door finally shut behind them, a few worries surfaced. It was possible, after all, that Peter had just invited him up for coffee or to talk and maybe not for a continuation of where the dream had left off. Sylar supposed those were … okay. They'd still sort of be together, after all. Peter had so many other choices now that they were back. He was a fool to think that wouldn't play a part in things. There would be other missions, he knew, but he didn't know where he'd fit into any of that, if he'd fit at all. To distract himself from any possible disappointment, he looked around the oddly barren apartment, thinking about the various times he or Nathan had been here in the last few years – violence, strangeness, and betrayal came to mind. _No wonder he wanted answers. Things have been as fucked up for him as they were for me._

He didn't get to think more before Peter was in his arms, pinning him to the door, pulling him down for an ardent kiss. It obliterated all his doubts and reminded him acutely of how inside-of-his-own-head he'd been living recently and how little regard he'd been giving to Peter. Peter, who wanted him and was expressing that very clearly at the moment – but why? Something about solving his own internal problems had lit a fire of curiosity within Sylar to know more about others. He'd been so focused on his own journey that he'd missed the one Peter had been making parallel to him – how over the years, hatred had cooled to dislike, and then had come the questions – first as interrogation, but then becoming gentle and probing though no less persistent. And while Peter's tone softened, so too had his heart. Somewhere along the line, sympathy had become empathy which had morphed into affection – and maybe even into something more. Sylar cursed himself briefly for not having paid more attention to that ultimate transformation, though he'd been a bit busy with his own.

Peter parted from him just enough to whisper huskily against his lips, "You still want this?"

"All of it," Sylar growled without hesitation this time, kissing back and pushing Peter backwards from the door towards the bed. A flick of his fingers threw the French doors open wide. Peter scrambled onto the bed, pulling off his shirt with enthusiastic abandon. Sylar's shirt followed, the two garments landing atop one another in the corner.

Sylar paused at the bedside and took in the incredible sight of someone eagerly awaiting intimacy with him. Peter was so beautiful and perfect that it seemed almost too good to be true. Peter had had his dramatic rescue of Emma. He had to know Sylar wasn't going to go back to the life he'd had before (any of the various walks of life he'd trodden). And so Sylar found himself contemplating once more the same question Peter had pestered him with so much in the nightmare world, the same one that was already echoing around in his own skull: _Why?_ But rather than torment Peter with years of questions, he had a short cut. He sat on the edge of the bed, eyes intent on Peter. "I have an ability from Lydia. It helps me understand people. I want to understand you. Will you let me use it?"

Wide-eyed, Peter blinked at the interruption in the moment, but took the quick de-escalation in stride. "Okay." He nodded slowly as he took in what that meant. "I want you to understand me, so … yeah."

Sylar nodded back, turning to crawl onto the mattress and sit cross-legged before Peter, who was on his knees. Sylar reached out to cup Peter's face with a hand on each handsomely-stubbled cheek. "Using her ability has its perks." He smiled and leaned in, pressing a soft, sweet kiss to Peter's lips. He felt Peter stiffen at the foreign tingle of the ability, but he showed his trust by not pulling away. A moment later, Sylar had all the answers he needed – all the mechanisms and complications of Peter's soul were laid bare, every damaged part clear. There were a lot more of them than he'd expected. Leaning back, he observed, "You need a connection as badly as I do."

Peter defiantly pulled his face from Sylar's grasp, leaving Sylar smiling slightly at the display of 'I'm not weak' or perhaps an even more childish, 'I don't need nothing!' But Peter recognized the reaction as well as Sylar did. "Maybe," he allowed and then warned, "Things haven't been good for the people I've fallen for. Think you're up for it?"

A challenge. Peter was not at all as confident and purposeful as he acted. The passionate, pinned-to-the-door kiss of earlier and the scrambling on the bed weren't the indicators Sylar had thought they were. They were still indicators, but instead of a thoroughly thought-out course of action, it was a reckless plunge accompanied by a 'hope for the best'. It was winsome and adorable in that sweet, naïve way of Peter's. He'd take a risk on anyone, even Sylar, and he'd been battered so badly by that openness that his whole life had come apart. Sylar knew how to put it together, and that would start with building him up. "I've taken falls for worse." Sylar cocked his head philosophically, his gaze falling into Peter's. "But not for better."

Peter chuckled uncertainly, wanting to take that as an authentic compliment, but thinking it was so much more likely that Sylar was joking. He didn't look like he was joking. As always, Peter dealt with uncertainty with action and started to pull Sylar down over him to repeat their arrangement on the couch. Sylar stopped him, pulling him right back up. "I want you inside of me," Sylar said seriously, taking Peter's chin and giving him a quick smooch, then backing off a few inches. This was far more important than he suspected Peter knew.

Sylar knew it wasn't enough for Peter to have the anticlimactic non-answer he'd gained in the dream world, that Sylar was as he was. It had been enough for Sylar, but he'd seen in Peter's heart that it wasn't enough for him – not really, not completely. Ultimately, that wouldn't satisfy someone who had so determinedly peeled back every layer of Sylar's being, trying to metaphorically get inside him. To have Peter accept him entirely, forever, Sylar had to let him get inside him physically, to know him in every way, and to claim him. And Sylar so badly wanted to be claimed. It would finalize that connection, just as he'd wanted to do in the dream world.

For a long, dangling moment, Sylar wondered if he'd misread the signs he'd divined with Lydia's ability. Peter's gorgeous, liquid eyes were inches from his own, taking him in and sizing him up. Then with a sudden, decisive huff of breath, Peter pushed forward and kissed him hard and lustily, guiding him over backwards, heads towards the foot of the bed. Sylar squirmed to unfold his legs and then raised his knees around Peter's hips just as Peter had done to him on the couch. He'd never been in this position with a male: face to face. His hands wrapped around the bare skin of Peter's sides, fingers skating across the moving planes of muscle on his back. Peter bent to Sylar's neck, kissing and working his way up in separate applications of lips and teeth. Sylar groaned at the riveting feeling of Peter's breath alternating hot and cool against him. Peter rolled his pelvis in a slow rocking motion, rubbing them together and bringing yet another dimension of pleasure to bear.

A desperate urge to hurry passed through Sylar. He wanted this to happen. He wanted it to be real. He didn't want to get interrupted by dreams or gunshots or Peter's mother calling on the phone at the exact wrong time. He stopped gripping the valley of Peter's spine and instead scrambled at their pants. Peter let him, but moved up distractingly to kiss his mouth, all tongue and pulsing lips, one kiss after another, hard and soft and all over and then just sucking in one lip at a time. Sylar couldn't take it - his eyes rolled back in their sockets as his hands gave up their task only half done and seized Peter's still fully-clothed hips. Even aside from drowning in sensation, he could hardly breathe with the oral assault Peter was laying on him. His own pants were open, his erection straining for release as Peter's matching hardness ground against him.

"Ugh." Sylar tried to pull himself together, vague thoughts about telekinesis and pulling his jeans off getting repeatedly disrupted by Peter's hums and smooches and being awash in the experience of the man being right up in his face and staying there. He finally put his hand on Peter's chest and pushed him away. It took more resolve than he'd expected, but it was the only way he was going to get any more of his clothes off.

Peter took the opportunity to follow his example, ending naked and on his knees between Sylar's legs. As Sylar settled back into his former position, Peter licked his finger and ran it daringly from the tip of Sylar's erect cock to the base, a glowing golden light sparking between the two of them. _What the hell is that?_ Sylar's eyes widened. He was okay with abilities, obviously as he'd just used one to toss his pants over on the growing pile in the corner, but having something completely unknown applied without warning (to his penis of all things) was startling. Everything felt okay, though.

Peter smiled smugly at him and put that hand out to the side, a focused expression passing over his face. Lotion flew to his hand a moment later and Sylar supposed Peter could be forgiven for showing off his single ability when Sylar had more than a dozen. "It's been a while for me," Peter said hesitantly, explaining his lack of prober sexual lubricant as he popped the cap on the bottle. It was unscented at least. "I don't have condoms, either. I'm tested at work; I'm clean. If you'd rather do other things, I'm okay with that …"

Sylar shook his head, crooking an elbow to put his hand behind his head, watching Peter let a little vulnerability show through. "I want you in me," Sylar repeated his objective firmly. He had no idea of his own 'status', but of all his various problems, he'd never had symptoms of that issue. He had regeneration and Peter could acquire that ability from him. STDs were not a realistic concern, but he was glad Peter brought it up. He was thinking, at least – thinking about Sylar and his safety.

Peter nodded, setting aside the bottle as he leaned over Sylar, one hand coming down on the edge of the mattress near his head while the other, slick and searching, moved up between Sylar's legs. Peter kissed him, gentler, slower kisses now than they had been earlier. The back of his thumb found the bottom of Sylar's testicles and stroked back and forth across them, causing his scrotum to involuntarily tighten and draw up. Peter smiled, feeling the tender skin he'd been rubbing go from smooth to wrinkled in a few heartbeats. Wet, lotion-heavy fingers began to probe lower down. Sylar's legs pulled up further, knees high as his gut clenched and anxious butterflies took flight in his stomach. He worried about being too hairy or dirty or having some physical trait previously unbeknownst to him that might make him unsuitable for the act. His hands stroked nervously up and down Peter's wonderfully smooth chest and abdomen. He tried to fight off the feeling of possible inadequacy, but the strongest blow against that was how Peter didn't pause or flinch or turn away. Peter used his skilled digits to smear Sylar thoroughly, the slick, sliding sensation on his anus titillating and tantalizing with the promise/threat of more.

Sylar pulled Peter down for a longer kiss, hands on each side of his face as he called on Lydia's power again. He needed the reassurance it offered. Peter wasn't going to hurt him; Peter's motives were pure (or, well, as pure as you could expect for someone currently overcome with the desire to fuck your brains out). It was what Sylar needed to know – no hidden agenda, no manipulation, no reservations. Peter wanted him, might even love him although he wasn't quite to verbalizing that yet. He was still a lot closer to it than Sylar was, which blew Sylar away that anyone could feel that way towards him at all. He let go the last of his reservations and tried to relax all the right muscles to make this work the way he'd heard it did between people who wanted the pleasure to be mutual.

A single finger breached him and he jerked, wondering, realizing, that Peter had felt what he'd done in using Lydia's power, but hadn't let it interrupt this time. His hips bucked as Peter hooked his finger up and brushed over sensitive, internal parts. Peter showered kisses in a trail across Sylar's cheek and then back along his jawline as he probed and opened him.

"You want me," Sylar whispered to him as earnestly as if it were a profession of his own attraction.

"Don't need an ability to find that out," Peter made a rough chuckle, turning his head to work his way down Sylar's throat. His fingers, plural now, pistoned in and out slowly.

Sylar tipped his head back, baring himself eagerly. Mindful of the dangers of his Adam's apple bobbing around under the circumstances, he took the risk anyway and said, "I didn't hurt anyone for that one. It's special."

Peter lifted and looked at him, hand stilling for a moment before he leaned in to kiss his mouth tenderly and slowly. "You're special no matter what." He eased his hand out, lotioned himself heavily, and moved into position after tucking a pillow under Sylar's rump. Sylar canted his hips up, trying to visualize how the angles were going to work and wishing he'd watched more gay porn in his rather sheltered and limited sexual life. Peter knew what he was doing, though, and he could feel the hot, rounded head of Peter's cock pressing against him, one hand on it to guide it in, the other bracing Peter's upper body as he mounted his partner.

Sylar reached up to pet his face, watching the expressions of concentration and desire play out across Peter's features. He had enough of an idea of what was about to happen to bear down at the right point, feeling the gradual stretching as Peter pressed inside of him bit by careful bit. The feeling went from odd to uncomfortable to something Sylar could only describe as 'hungry' in a far shorter order than he expected. His breathing turned to gasps. He moved his hand from Peter's cheek to slip it behind his neck, holding on as Peter began to flex back and forth, adding a whole new magnitude to the experience. That was new, different, and _good_. "Oh!" popped out of his mouth unintentionally as Peter prodded his way deeper, the delicate, nerve-filled skin of his ass being pulled and pushed, the muscles of his sphincters being gently coaxed even further open.

Peter stooped to kiss him – long, slow, and unbearably sweet. Finding himself surprisingly impatient, Sylar started moving his hips himself and Peter let him fuck himself on him for a while before taking over with one final push, socketing them together as deep as he could go. Sylar gave up any illusion of dignity and moaned, clenching his hands on Peter's shoulders, then he growled possessively as he tightened his legs around Peter's buttocks. This was his – it was finally his! Peter pushed him down and started riding him harder, tirelessly filling and refilling Sylar's body with his cock. He was taking him, pounding himself into him, and making them one. Sylar offered himself up, giving a loose, smug smirk of immense satisfaction as Peter worked and sweated and pumped away at him.

Sylar's dick was hard between them, bobbing and slapping against his stomach in time with Peter's thrusts. Sylar touched himself occasionally, but mostly he was just along for the ride, thrilled at what was happening. It was so fucking unbelievable. Everything about it made his head spin. He tried to stay focused on Peter and on how much Peter wanted him. He felt loved … and damned if he didn't feel what he imagined love to be, swelling to life inside of him.

Peter stopped for a moment, shifting his weight and displacing Sylar's half-hearted tugging at himself. "I want to feel you come … around me," Peter murmured as he leaned in what was an impressive one-handed push-up, kissing Sylar deeply. Mouth, dick, ass all being stimulated at once by a lover, Sylar was overwhelmed by this growing, glowing, tingling limerent feeling of being high burning inside of him. When the kiss ended, he flopped back, his head dipping off the end of the bed, as Peter wasn't quite as good at keeping them on the furniture while one of his hands was busy. Sylar thought about trying to give them leverage with telekinesis, but … fuck it. He didn't care if they fucked on the floor or hanging from the ceiling. He was getting stroked and pounded in sync and wasn't going to last long enough anyway, although the real reason was that in all of that huge brain of his, he couldn't spare the brain cells. Every one of them was too busy with the experience just as it was.

After a few more seconds, Peter repeated his athleticism of earlier, bending to bite and nip at Sylar's exposed throat. It was so easy for that particular maneuver to be brutal, life-ending even, yet Peter was so delicate, so careful. Sylar felt himself losing it - arousal lit him up even brighter from inside, warming and spreading, coiling through his form until it settled in his balls, a hot, building pressure desperate for release. Nothing else existed but the urge to come, Peter's hand working him, and Peter's shaft filling him. He was wanted, taken, and used – everything he wanted, all at once. He burst out, ejaculating across Peter's hand, his asshole tightening and squeezing around Peter's cock.

"Ha," Peter puffed out triumphantly, moved to speak even if he was lacking a bit in articulation at the moment. "Oh yeah. Baby. Yeah. Fuck. Yeah!" He went back to both hands, bracing himself through his own climax a few moments later. This time, Sylar finally used telekinesis to keep him from taking a fall for Peter in a very literal fashion. It would be exactly the wrong moment for Peter's needs, as the man was grunting and vigorously slamming himself home, shoving into him as hard as flesh would bear. Sylar knew he was being well and thoroughly fucked. Peter's breath caught and his thrusts shuddered to an erratic stop as his cock pulsed, spilling his seed. Finally spent, Peter sank over Sylar and held them together as his hips started moving again, making a few last, parting rolls out of instinct or just indulgence. "Oh … yeah. Fuck me," he muttered. A second later, as sense finally penetrated the fog of lust Peter was in, he noticed there was nothing but empty air beyond Sylar's shoulders. "Uh?"

"Hold onto me." Sylar lifted them both and reoriented them back on the mattress. "There. Safe now."

"Hm. Yeah." Peter nuzzled him, lifting his weight off and slowly extracting himself before returning for more nuzzling and pecking at Sylar's face. The endorphin rush left them both affectionate and cuddling. Sylar's muscles felt watery and bone-deep sore in a few places. For the moment, he elected to leave his regeneration off-line. The feeling was fantastic – like nothing else he'd ever had. To be on the receiving end of a partner who was so attentive to his pleasure was mind-blowing. He felt so vulnerable, yet safe. Peter rubbed his nose against his cheek, asking, "Is this … what you want? Someone to love? Can … Could I be …"

Sylar smiled wanly as Peter tried to pick his way to a declaration he'd made so easily to many people before. It was always easier when you'd just met someone and had little on the line. It was tougher when someone already meant a lot to you, when you were invested, when you felt like you'd lived with them for years and knew them inside and out. That was when there was more to lose, but Peter was still trying gamely to say it, and he was enough of a romantic to think they needed to talk about it, right now. _Silly man, _Sylar thought, and rescued Peter from his struggle. "Yes. This is what I wanted: someone to-" He paused for a moment, wondering if Peter had intentionally tricked him into saying it first. Even if it wasn't the classic, three-word formula, the meaning was the same. From the sly little smile tickling the corner of Peter's mouth, Sylar knew the answer_. Well. So he's not an entirely open book after all. That's good. Clever, clever_. Sylar's smile broadened and he finished, "Someone to love, someone to love me."


	55. Mouth Like a Sailor

**Title:** Mouth Like a Sailor  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Words:<strong> 100  
><strong>Setting:<strong> Any of my various Wall settings  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter innocently considers an alternate pronunciation of Sylar's name. Sylar, though, is not so innocent.

* * *

><p>Peter's mouth moved slightly, then he spoke. "Your name … Sy-lar …" His next pronunciation was even more off. "Sayler … that sounds like sailor."<p>

"And your name sounds like dick, Peter," Sylar snapped immediately.

Peter stared at him for a moment, then grinned, then laughed out loud. "It sounds like dick? That's … Hahaha!" He teased, "Is that what you think about when you say my name?"

Sylar frowned reproachfully. "Who's got the dirtier mind, Petrelli? You're the one who said my name reminded you of seamen."

Peter shook his head "There's _no question_ who has the dirtier mind."


	56. Like Like Me

**Title:** Like Like Me  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Words:<strong> 750  
><strong>Setting:<strong> Any of my various Wall settings  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter and Sylar, sitting on a rooftop talking, when Peter's loneliness gets the better of him.

* * *

><p>It started as no more than a pat on the forearm as they reclined on the rooftop, watching the sunset. Romantic in other situations, but for the most part, they were simply bored and indulging Peter's interest (or in Sylar's opinion, obsession) with high places.<p>

"Yeah, it certainly did," Peter stated, wrapping up his opinion on the lousy moral conduct shown by the Company and how it had screwed both of them up.

_Pat, pat, pat_ – Peter reached out and administered the usual consoling gesture, which was just as usually followed by lifting away one's hand because that was the entire gesture. At the close of the third pat, however, Peter's hand didn't lift away. It just rested there like Sylar's forearm was his new arm rest. Even Peter glanced over, like his hand had done something surprising and on its own. He looked at it. Sylar looked at it. Peter settled a little in his chair and shut his eyes, hand still in place. Sylar looked from Peter's face to his hand, very much appreciating the contact, but full of questions nonetheless. It was nice to be touched, even if he wondered if the shut eyes meant Peter was thinking of someone else. Peter wasn't – he wasn't thinking of anyone or anything but the feel of warm, human skin under his own, ignoring entirely who it belonged to. There was nothing sexual in this – he was just lonely and tempted.

Peter sighed. Eventually, there was no way to justify what he was doing. Reluctantly, he lifted his hand away. A moment later, Sylar sat up, reached across with his other hand, and wrapped thumb and forefinger around Peter's wrist, drawing him back. Peter stiffened, eyes flying between Sylar's hand and face, 'What's the meaning of this?' writ on his features. He jerked his hand back an inch. Sylar's grip was loose. Instead of tightening, he let Peter pull free, then followed and gently, persistently, led Peter back. Not being forced to it, Peter let him, though he stayed at alert.

Hardly much to be alert about. Sylar replaced Peter's hand on his arm and shot Peter a hopeful, questioning glance before putting his hand over Peter's and squeezing lightly. Then he let go and leaned back, waiting to see what would happen. Peter looked at where his hand had been put. A moment later, he flexed his fingers around the lean limb, fingertips pressing in and releasing. He sighed again, settling back down and accepting the positioning.

Most of a minute passed just like that without further movement, but then Peter began to pet Sylar just a little, then more. He slid his hand from Sylar's elbow to wrist, palm down at first and then with the backs of his knuckles. Sylar watched him, eyes large with a faint expression of either supplication or gratitude. In either case, he liked it … a lot. Peter's fingers played briefly across the back of Sylar's hand before returning to give a few more slow strokes to his forearm, ordering the sometimes unruly dark hairs.

"You like this?" Peter asked.

"Yes."

Peter drew in a deep breath and let it out. "I don't know what I'm doing."

Sylar had nothing to say to that. He didn't know either, but he liked that Peter was doing it.

Peter's forefinger teased along the top edge of Sylar's thumb, making Sylar wonder if he should rotate his arm to expose the softer, more sensitive skin underneath. "Will you ever like _me_?" Peter blurted, looking up at Sylar with a brief expression that was both raw and desperate.

Sylar felt a twist in his chest, remembering Peter's words linking intimacy to … liking. Or affection. And the question itself: did he like Peter? Could he? Not just Peter's touch or what Peter could do for or to him, but Peter as a person?

Before he could answer such a deceptively simple-seeming question, Peter was pulling away, muttering brusquely as he rose, "I shouldn't have said that." Sylar's mouth opened to call after him, but he couldn't even get Peter's name out, mind still locked up with the conundrum that he wanted to like Peter, wasn't sure he did, sure as hell couldn't admit it if it were true, and so what to say? Sylar wanted to be touched, yearned for it, but he wasn't going to ruin it with a facile lie. The door to the roof swung shut behind Peter and Sylar slumped back in his chair, looking out into the gathering darkness.


	57. Physical Training

**Title:** Physical Training  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Words:<strong> 900  
><strong>Setting:<strong> Any of my various Wall settings  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter talks Sylar into joining him in the weight room. Two scenes – one from Sylar's POV and the next from Peter's.

* * *

><p>"No, no. You need to lock your wrists." Peter left the weight bench he'd just finished setting up to his satisfaction and returned to Sylar, who froze in place at his approach. Peter's hands were gentle, though, moving across Sylar's hands and forearms as he positioned the weight. "Like that. Keep your wrists straight." Peter went through the motion of an upright row to demonstrate.<p>

Sylar exhaled, mentally reviewed what Peter wanted him to do, and repeated the motion. He had hand weights in each hand – lighter than he thought he needed, but the bit about his wrists was hardly Peter's first piece of unsolicited assistance. He stood erect, pulling the weight from waist level to mid-chest, his elbow bending to the side. He paused at the apex of the lift. "I can raise this higher."

"Don't. You can pinch nerves in your shoulders. That right there is good." He touched Sylar's wrists again – _ever so touchy,_ Sylar thought, appreciating that quality of Peter – and said, "Just like I don't want you spraining your wrists. Don't bend them. You're not trying to work your wrist muscles here." Peter stepped back and assessed his form for a few moments. "Don't lock your knees, just your wrists."

Sylar snorted an exhale at the constant corrections and flexed his knees slightly. Peter had mentioned that right at first, but Sylar had straightened at some point in the exercise. "Why do you care?"

"What?" Peter turned around from where he'd begun to go back to his own equipment.

"I asked why you care if I get sprained muscles. I'm working out with you either way. Is it that you don't want to see it being done wrong?"

"No." Peter's brows knit. "I care if you get _hurt,_ Sylar."

Sylar gave Peter a level look, although he continued to do the exercises Peter had directed. "Why does that matter to you?" As much as Sylar wouldn't mind having ice packs prepared for him and Peter doting on him (and Sylar knew Peter _would_, which was adorable and unsettling at the same time), he couldn't see what Peter got out of it whether he did it right or wrong.

Peter sputtered at a loss for words momentarily. "Well, I just do!" His embarrassment morphed into a scowl and Peter growled at him, "You've locked your knees again. Quit that."

"Yes, Peter," he said with a singsong voice suited for 'yes, dear'. Sylar smiled slightly, amused by Peter's irritation, but even more taken by the idea the man cared about his safety and comfort for no reason other than … well, because he was Peter and Sylar was Sylar. Sylar couldn't think of anyone who knew him at all who had ever cared for him like that. It was charming and _very_ attractive.

* * *

><p>Panting heavily, Peter toppled onto the bench next to Sylar. Although they'd both been doing cardio exercises for the same length of time, Sylar seemed almost perfectly composed. As he caught his breath, Peter carded the sweaty, lanky hair out of his own face to better regard his companion. Sylar looked only the slightest bit winded. "You know," Peter puffed, "that friend of mine who worked as my trainer," he paused for a couple more deep breaths, "had a saying, 'If you can talk while you're doing cardio, you're not working hard enough.'"<p>

Sylar raised a brow at him. "That's not much of a saying. 'No pain, no gain' has a much better ring to it."

Peter snorted. "My point is that you're not pushing yourself hard enough to get any improvement."

"Maybe I'm already perfect."

Peter leaned back against the wall behind them, chuckling. "You keep telling yourself that, buddy."

Sylar gave him a very brief, softer smile. Peter'd noticed he did that a lot when called 'buddy'. And they were buddies as far as Peter was concerned. He placed the term as less emotionally-laden than 'friend', but they were obviously more than just associates. Then Sylar looked away, silent.

Peter didn't think it was his imagination that Sylar had tensed a little. He did that, too, a lot – he froze up when Peter approached him, stiffened sometimes in a sort of abbreviated flinch, and fell silent when words might betray something he was concerned about. Without thinking it through, a conclusion formed in Peter's mind and came out in words. "You're afraid to get tired around me. You think I might do something to you if you were too exhausted to fight me off."

It definitely wasn't Peter's imagination – he saw muscles flex in Sylar's legs, bare other than shorts, and in his forearms. His hands and face stayed impassive through sheer will. "I am not _afraid_ of you."

Peter eyed him perceptively, seeing the lie for what it was but deciding to leave it alone for the sake of Sylar's ego. "Okay. But you're holding back. You're not going to accomplish anything if you keep doing that. You're going to have to commit if you want any development here."

Sylar's head snapped back to him and after a focused examination of Peter's face, the man said, "If it were anyone else who said that, I'd think that had to be subtext. But with you," Sylar faced forward again, "I'm sure you're only talking about my cardiovascular health."

Peter frowned, thinking over his words. Seeing what Sylar was getting at, Peter got to his weary feet and planted his hand briefly on Sylar's shoulder. "Well, you're not going to get any other development, either, as long as you're making me do all the work." He headed off to the showers, mulling over the possibility of 'developments' between them.


	58. Faulty Charge

**Title:** Faulty Charge  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Mild discussion of possible date rape  
><strong>Words:<strong> 1200  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter gives Sylar some coaching on how to initiate a relationship.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> There's a lot of words in here referencing electricity. Just because.

* * *

><p>Peter shoved Sylar away, forcefully. It wasn't hard – Sylar was right in his face (again), hulking over him and evidently thinking Peter would find this behavior so alluring that he'd surrender to Sylar's charms with a buckling of his knees and unbuckling of Sylar's pants. No way.<p>

Sylar, for his part, looked frustrated and put-upon at the continuing resistance. He'd gotten over being hurt at the rejections, or at least he'd stopped showing it. Since the rejection was just that – rejection – and not followed by prolonged isolation or anything Sylar might find truly negative (although it was occasionally followed by a fist-fight), Sylar had not stopped trying.

Sylar wasn't the only one frustrated, but in Peter's case it wasn't due to the desires of another being at odds with his own. He'd slowly, over the months and maybe years, come around to the idea that yeah, there could be something between them. And perhaps Sylar's approaches were due to an equal sensing of that possibility. Yet Sylar's actions shut the door to that electrifying potential every single time.

"Would you _stop_ charging up on me?" Peter exclaimed as Sylar stumbled back. Peter's right fist was balled as it often was, just in case Sylar didn't take the hint of being shoved away and tried to invade Peter's space a second time, this time with husky murmurs about his willingness to play rough. Peter glared at him. What he was doing wasn't doing any good. He needed to short-circuit the process somehow. He huffed. What _would _do some good?

"When you charge up on me like that," Peter explained heatedly, "it doesn't do you any good. It makes me associate 'Sylar close to me' with 'Sylar threatening me' or 'Sylar ignoring what I want', neither of which are positive things. They're both huge turn-offs, so I respond by trying to fight you. I don't want to play rough. I don't want to play at all. I get afraid, so I try to fight you off." Peter stopped to take a few deep breaths. Sylar had become static, his expression serious. He was silently and attentively listening. "Do you get it?" Peter finally asked, unsettled by the shift in demeanor. He wasn't saying anything that wasn't patently obvious, after all.

"Yes," Sylar said simply. "What would do some good?"

Peter snorted and walked away, raking at his hair. Funny – it was the same question Peter had asked himself, only moments before.

"Hypothetically?" Sylar added to his retreating back, a pleading, hopeful note entering his voice.

Peter turned back. He'd seen lots of guys who were complete and utter idiots in dealing with the people they were attracted to. Not that he exempted himself from that category, but he had noticed a few patterns and it would probably make things nicer between them if he could convince Sylar to abandon the over-the-top power-play. "Dial it back a few notches. Don't charge up on me, stand over me, and go all bedroom-voice on me. You're coming on way too strong before you even know if I'm in the mood. And I'm not so stupid that I don't know that – that you've gone zero to sixty without paying any attention to where I'm at. So, like ..." Peter stepped closer, his face softening as he sidled up to Sylar at an angle, most of an arm's reach away. He reached out and touched Sylar's forearm, just a brush back and forth before pulling away. Sylar, like any human being with reasonably normal emotional reactions, had raised his forearm in response to the gentle, non-threatening touch, looking at Peter with interest and curiosity flavoring his otherwise intent attention.

Peter took a step back. "Something like that, and back off." He waited a beat to illustrate his point. "Then _let me react_," he said with emphasis. "I'll probably look at you like you're crazy and I'm not interested, but my point is that I won't be shoving you or hitting you or wanting to run off in the other direction. You'd be giving me a choice. The way you're doing it with the getting-in-my-face thing, it's all fight-or-flight. Even if I'm interested, there's nothing for me to do except surrender because you've taken all the moves. _Leave me some moves_. You back off and maybe if I'm interested I'll reach back. Or do something else." He smirked and took a step nearer, reaching out to playfully nudge Sylar's shoulder. He tilted his head, smiling at Sylar's uncertain look. "Most likely I won't be into it at all, but getting a weird look is better than getting a fist, right?"

Sylar lifted both brows and shrugged slightly, unconvincingly trying to pretend he didn't care which he got. "I don't mind."

"I _do_." Peter sighed with exasperation. "Most people do. Listen, I've seen guys pull that stunt on girls half their size, making her think she might be in a lot of danger to turn him down, and sometimes that works for the guy. He takes what he wants because he can and maybe she'll go along with it, but it never works out in the end." Peter paused, because Sylar had abruptly blanched and moved a step away from him, regarding him with a mix of suspicion and disgust. "What?" Peter asked.

"I never told you about that," Sylar said, almost a question. His shock made it clear Peter had described something that applied very directly to Sylar's personal past.

Peter blinked. "No … you didn't." He drew in a slow, deep breath, realizing the rapey vibes he occasionally got off Sylar were dead-on.

"I thought … I didn't ..." Sylar's voice faltered. He shook his head. "She never … I tried to save her life."

"By fucking her?" Peter cocked his head judgmentally.

"No!" Sylar snapped. "I-" He stood there uncertainly for a while, then shook his head, semi-decisively. "She seemed into it."

Peter crossed his arms, not buying it, even if what Sylar was sharing of the incident was awfully sparse. "Let's imagine she wouldn't lose anything by turning you down. Let's imagine you hadn't even made a move. Do you think she would have made one herself? Did she seem into it before you made it clear what was going to happen regardless of what she wanted?"

Sylar squirmed. "She was talking about how bad things were … I was showing her how it didn't have to be like that ..."

"So you're telling yourself that you had sex with her to get her mind off of everything, right?" Peter still wasn't impressed. Sylar made a helpless shrug, so Peter went on, "Here's another way of looking at it, Sylar – you completely disregarded what she was concerned about, made it clear what you wanted just like you've been doing with me, and left her with the choice of 'seeming to be into it' and staying on your good side, or fighting and maybe having it happen anyway, and probably having you against her after that." Sylar looked crushed. Peter exhaled heavily and forcefully. "That's why I keep turning you down – you're ignoring what I want. I thank God we're about the same size and you don't have all your powers, Sylar."


	59. Portentous

**Title:** Portentous  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Words:<strong> 500  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter floats a theory past Sylar about how Peter might get his powers back.

**Notes:** It occurred to me this morning that it's been forever since I wrote anything. Since my morning tasks were going real well, I asked the muses what they were up to.

Peter pulled out a sketch pad and a pack of colored pencils after he'd sat down at the work table in Sylar's apartment. He took the wrapper off the brand-new sketch book and opened the pack of pencils, shaking the box lightly to shuffle them out where he could see them. He clicked on the desk lamp, pleased with the illumination. He'd thought this would be a good place to do it.

"You said you couldn't draw," Sylar said from where he was reclining on the couch with his book, taking up the entire piece of furniture in a relaxed sprawl. He and Peter had been on good terms lately. A certain level of comfort between them was the result.

"I could once. Or, well, while I had Isaac's ability. I could draw, paint … everything had a different feel to it then, like something big was going to happen."

"Portentous."

"What's that? A word that means something big's going to happen?"

Sylar nodded, picking his book up again and directing his eyes to it.

_There's a word for that. Huh._ Peter watched him, wondering if Sylar had some insight on Peter's current interest. It wouldn't hurt to see what the other man thought. "I was thinking maybe I still had my abilities." That got Sylar's attention, immediately. Peter pursed his lips, going on, "When I got them, it was a change to my DNA. I got sick for a while – after I met you, after I got so many at once. Getting new abilities was always a little bit of a shock to my system because it _changed_ me. It changed who and what I was." He swallowed. "So I was thinking when my father did what he did, it would have been easier to turn everything off instead of take them all away and have to change everything back."

Sylar's brows rose and he looked away introspectively for a moment, considering that.

Peter asked, "What if they're still there and I just have to learn how to turn them on again?"

Slowly, Sylar said, "That's possible. I don't know how your father's ability worked."

"Yeah. I know. Me neither. But a lot less possible things have happened. Sometimes we just have to keep trying until something works, you know? I thought I'd start with drawing and try to remember how it made me feel, how Isaac made me feel." He paused, watching Sylar's slight nod, taking it as a sign of approval. "Portentous," Peter pronounced carefully.

"Hm," Sylar said softly as he turned back to his book.

Peter pulled out a red pencil, then put it back and pulled out black. Changing his mind again, he settled on grey, which would be a good one to use to outline whatever it was he was going to draw. At that, his mind was blank. He looked around the apartment for inspiration. There was sure to be something around here he could use as a model. His eyes settled on Sylar and a small, sly smile creased Peter's features. He flipped open the sketch pad, adjusted its position on the desk, and went to work.


	60. Touchy Feely

**Title:** Touchy Feely  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Rating:<strong> R  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Words:<strong> 2200  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sylar works on breaking down Peter's walls, with unexpected success.

"It goes without saying that you can touch me any way you want – you already do, after all." Sylar sank into the mustard-yellow, leather-clad easy chair across from Peter, a tiny, glass table between them in the cozy little retro coffee shop. He pressed his lips together after his words and regarded Peter, who was blinking at him in surprise at this odd way to start a conversation. Sylar knew it was weird as hell and maybe it was a little early in the morning for this, but he didn't know how else to broach the subject. "What I want to know is what is allowed for touching _you_."

"Me?" A squawk.

"Yes. You are the only other person in the world, as far as I know."

Peter's brows pulled together, but thankfully he didn't argue. He didn't say anything else, either, which led Sylar to sigh internally and repeat the question. "Where may I touch you in a way that doesn't get me hit?" He'd had enough of that.

"Touch me how?"

"Casually," he bit out, because he wanted so much more, but thought it was wiser to start small. Hence this entire conversation – the come-ons were turned down harshly in those moments when Peter noticed them at all. It wasn't like the need and the drive wasn't there - Peter was both very physical and very sexual. Sylar needed to find a way past the inhibitions.

He had Peter's attention, though, which was a good start. After a moment of thought, he answered in a manner Sylar found useful and intriguing. "You can touch me casually anywhere other than my ass, my groin, and my chest." He pronounced this like it was a written rule, something that had always been true and always would be, and something Sylar should have already been aware of.

But Sylar's mind abounded in questions. _Why the chest? His chest is off limits but his face isn't? His hair isn't off limits either! You mean I could have been touching his hair this whole time? But not his chest, because of course that's an obvious area for a man to refuse to be touched,_ he thought sarcastically. _Well, that __**is**__ part of why I was asking. _"What about … other touching?" Sylar's expression insinuated dirty things.

Peter's face hardened and his voice became clipped. "What 'other touching'?"

_Okay, that's not going to work. Flirty = shutdown, every time. _Adopting innocence, he said, "Supportive touching."

Peter narrowed his eyes briefly at Sylar, then shrugged. "Wherever. I don't care. As long as it's really you supporting me, helping. That's different."

Sylar nodded slowly. _No ass/groin/chest exemption this time._ "I meant it literally, yes. What about medically?" He assumed the answer was the same. This time he was not surprised.

"Yeah," Peter nodded. "Anywhere." Again, though, he felt the need to throw in a glare and say threateningly, "Assuming we're not talking about euphemisms?"

"No, we're not," Sylar said immediately, irritated by Peter's tone and how Sylar's one intimation of 'other touching' was still causing Peter to bite at him. "What about violent touching?" _In case I need to do some. _Any conversation between the two of them had the potential to spiral in unlikely directions. Sylar preferred to believe this was due to chemistry.

Peter's head pulled back, brows knitting together. Sylar wondered briefly what Peter made of the line of questioning. Did he accept each new question as an unexpected non-sequitor? Was he puzzling out Sylar's true motivations or did he already know them? Sometimes Peter would see right through Sylar, shocking him with the realization that Peter had been onto him from the start. Other times, Peter acted so dense it was a wonder the planet didn't collapse into a singularity. Peter said, "I would prefer you didn't touch me violently at all."

Sylar gave a sardonic, fatalistic loft of his brows. _Fine. He's never any fun._ But Peter apparently thought better of it and came back for clarification. "Do you mean, like, playing?"

"Yes," Sylar answered patiently. Peter clearly did not understand the purpose of violence. For Peter, it was a means of achieving an end – you used it to remove obstacles or achieve goals when other methods failed. For Sylar, it was an end unto itself. It was fun, exciting, and made his blood race to pit himself against someone. Violence was a game he wanted to play over and over again, and hurting his partner too badly would prevent that. In their first fights, it had quickly become apparent that Peter had no interest in preserving Sylar's ability to fight again some other day. Quite to the contrary, Peter escalated with absurd rapidity, making physical conflict so costly and risky that Sylar had faced each new one with the fear it would be the last. He'd had to look out for himself – nothing new; it was depressingly familiar. If they were to survive, he had to change things.

"Playing. Okay. Like sports?" Sylar nodded to Peter's question. Peter went on, "That's okay. Anything but my groin. Nut shots are never cool."

Sylar blinked slowly. _Chest and ass are okay, though? Sports-related butt-pats get a bye, then. His face is still not off-limits either. Does he mean that, or is he just not thinking about it because he thinks that should be taken for granted?_ Sylar looked down, contemplating that and deciding to stop here for the day. He'd learned some interesting things he wanted to think over a bit more and Peter seemed too jumpy to tolerate a follow-up question about intimate touching.

The silence invited Peter to ask his own questions, and he did. "How about you? Do you have the same limits?"

Sylar lifted his head, taking a moment to figure out why he'd ask that when Sylar had started the talk by addressing it. _He doesn't believe me._ "I meant what I said," he said levelly. "You can touch me anywhere you want."

Peter looked at him straight for a moment, then snorted a disbelieving laugh. "No. You're not telling me you'd be okay with me just copping a feel whenever I was curious."

"Yes. That's what I'm telling you." He tried to keep his tone factual instead of arch as he wanted it to be, offended by Peter very nearly calling him a liar. _Why is this so hard for him to believe? He's always fondling my shoulders or arms or the back of my neck or petting my back and touching against my hands when we do things. I never stop him. I don't even call attention to it. Does he not notice what he's doing?_

"Seriously?"

_Do I detect a hint of interest there? Temptation maybe? Did his mind jump to copping a feel because he genuinely __**is **__curious?_ Sylar sprawled backwards in his seat, spreading his legs and putting his arms along the armrests of the chair, slouching back. Peter was staring at him. Sylar almost -almost- rumbled his invitation before catching himself and changing his voice from seductive to challenging. The small difference was crucial."Try me." With that, he shut his eyes. He didn't have to wait long. He knew Peter well enough to know that. He heard Peter stand. For a moment, there was the wavering probability Peter would stalk off and leave. That by itself would be good to know because it would confirm Peter's disinterest and establish that the 'hint' Sylar had detected was wishful thinking. But Peter didn't stalk off. He stepped around the table until his knee brushed Sylar's without any evident attempt to minimize contact. Focused only on the sounds, he heard Peter draw in a deep breath, then felt the light stir of air on his arm as Peter let it out. _He's going to do it. Or something, at least._

Sylar felt the warm pads of fingertips touch his forearm, immediately above his watch. They touched and rested there, immobile. _Nothing so direct as grabbing my junk, then._ Sylar breathed evenly, relaxed in appearance and fact. Tension served no purpose at the moment and he could strike out at Peter as quickly from repose as from alert. Plus, he was nearly certain he didn't need to. A moment later, he felt the change in texture as Peter curled his hand so it was the back of his fingers rubbing against Sylar's arm. _Is he just testing me?_

The contact stopped. It hadn't lasted long, really, although Sylar missed it as soon as it ceased. Not knowing what else to do, he turned his arm over in mute invitation, baring the underside like a dog asking for a belly scratch. That seemed to help, as Peter returned to touching him, tickling over the sensitive skin so lightly that Sylar made an involuntary noise. His skin pimpled with goosebumps. Peter almost immediately made an appreciative noise in return. _He liked that!_

Peter began full-on stroking him, fingers gripping around his forearm and gliding up and down it like it was an enormous shaft. Sylar felt uncomfortable in his groin and shifted slightly in his seat. Peter made another faint, pleased noise before saying softly, "Look at me."

Sylar opened his eyes. _He wants to be seen. He wants the attention. That's why he liked that before – it wasn't the goosebumps, it was that I reacted. _He held Peter's eyes until the other man looked down to where he put one hand on the arm of the chair. It freed the other so he could tease up Sylar's biceps, stopping at the hem of the shirt sleeve as though it was some barrier to be tested and explored. Sylar sighed wistfully, turning his head to gaze up at Peter in a manner he hoped was adoring and encouraging. This was already way more intimate than any passing shoulder-grope Peter might give him. Sylar's heart was thudding in his chest. Everything seemed warm and tingly.

Peter toyed with the edge of the shirt sleeve, looking up at Sylar uncertainly. "You like this?"

"Yes." _How could there have ever been any doubt?_

"This is what you want?"

_Oh shit._ Peter's tone was the same, but Sylar's experience was that people only asked what he wanted so they could charge more for it. Fear stabbed through him. "Yes," he said cautiously, hoping his honesty might somehow minimize the regret he was sure he'd feel for saying it, or at least give him a weapon against Peter.

Instead of withdrawing, though, Peter's hand made the leap and brushed across his shoulder and upper chest. "Anywhere?"

"Yes," Sylar murmured, wishing sorely that there was some form of touching he could do right now that could legitimately be considered 'casual'. It was breaking over and through him that Peter's inhibitions had nothing to do with asking for Peter's permission to touch him and everything to do with telling Peter **he** had permission. It was blindingly simple (and so very like Peter that something so stupid would be his hang-up).

Peter rested his hand over Sylar's heart, flattening, palm down. He had to be able to feel the organ's pounding. Sylar wondered if Peter could even hear it. Taking a risk of how he would interpret the gesture, Sylar brought his right hand over to Peter's. _This is supportive, right? Or maybe even medical._ Sylar stroked gently down from elbow to hand, where he rested his over Peter's, over his heart, which felt like it was fluttering or misfiring. He hoped it wasn't serious, because the more this went on, the more strongly it was happening and the less he wanted to take a moment out to work out why it was doing that. It was worrying. "Can you feel that?" he finally asked.

Peter smiled and nodded, soft and romantic in a way that made Sylar's gut clench and his pants felt more uncomfortable than ever. Sylar wondered even if Peter was doing this intentionally, creating these weird sensations. Had he come over here and put his hand on Sylar's heart to …? Sylar's brain was fuzzing out. Looking up, all he wanted to do was pull Peter down to him for a kiss. He reached for him, but Peter gave his chest a little push, clearly a discouragement.

"Not yet."

"'Yet'?" Sylar asked, seeing as that was almost a promise for later.

Peter drew in a deep breath and straightened, his hand returning to his side and Sylar's heart thundering away with almost painful beats. Peter said, "I … I might have been wrong on some of the things I said earlier. Let me think about it." With that, he patted Sylar on the side of the forearm, his hand trailing off down that limb to perch briefly on Sylar's watch before finally breaking contact. Peter gave him a shy, awkward smile before turning and leaving to have his 'think'.

Sylar shut his eyes and let his head fall back, waiting the few seconds until the coffee shop door closed. It felt like his body was on fire, every blood vessel about to burst – particularly the ones in the organ currently swelling his jeans. It was not ten seconds after the door shut behind Peter before Sylar had his cock in his hand.


	61. Who's Who

**Title:** Who's Who  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Words:<strong> 1500  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> After a long time together, Sylar has figured out a lot about how Peter works. There is a very personal issue Sylar wants Peter to understand.

* * *

><p>"I have some questions to ask you," Sylar said as they sat down in his apartment. He felt safe here. He felt like 'him' here. He knew he needed those small supports because he was about to break open a subject neither of them was going to be happy about. When Peter seemed well situated on the couch, Sylar leaned forward in the armchair and asked, "When you arrived at the hospital in Odessa to see Matt Parkman, who did you think was with you?"<p>

"Nathan. You."

That was a confusing answer. Sylar clarified it. "Which did you think was with you at the time?"

"Nathan."

"Looking back on it _now_, who do you think was with you?"

"Uh … Nathan?" Peter's brows drew together a little as though not sure what the difference was in the question.

Sylar blinked. He'd had this suspicion about Peter, hence this line of questioning. "You think that was Nathan? Now, with everything you know _now_."

Peter tilted his head like a dog at an odd noise. "Yeah."

Sylar breathed out slowly. Peter's sense of identity and who people were wasn't quite lining up with his own and since Sylar was personally involved in this one, the interpretation mattered. A lot. "Okay," he allowed, moving on but not forgetting. "After I touched Matt's hand, who were you with?"

"Nathan."

"_After_ I touched Matt's hand."

"Yeah? At least, I think it was Nathan. I got knocked out."

"Yes. But when I tried to drop you off in the desert?"

"Nathan?"

He stared at Peter, but the guy was entirely serious. The occasional questioning tone seemed more of a 'why would you even doubt this?' sort of thing than any uncertainty on Peter's part. Peter's first answer, 'Nathan; you,' came back to Sylar. "You … don't see a difference between me and Nathan."

"Yeah I do."

Sylar raised his brows again. Once more, Peter was serious. The urge to assume he was lying was strong, but he'd found Peter to be generally _very_ honest with him, scrupulously so. That he would be lying now at such a moment, didn't stand up to scrutiny. There was no reason why Peter would lie at this juncture. The simpler answer, Occam's Razor, was that Peter was telling the truth as he saw it. It was the whole matter of that perception that Sylar was trying to get at. "Why would it make a difference that you were knocked out at the hospital? I'm going to be who I am regardless of whether or not you're conscious."

It was now Peter's turn to blink at him. "What? No, you're not. You don't have to be, necessarily." He gave Sylar a look that doubted Sylar's sanity. "You weren't always."

_I wasn't … always. Does he think I really became other people at times? He thinks … I __**was**__ Nathan all those weeks? _"So if I use shapeshifting to look like Nathan again and start acting like him, who am I?"

"How would I know?"

Sylar leaned back, feeling a weird trembling in his limbs. He was glad he was sitting. _This is why he did that at Mercy Heights. This is how a good-hearted person can do something so horrible and get away with it without a single moral qualm. He genuinely thought I would be Nathan – not that he would make me into Nathan, but that I __**was**__ Nathan. _"You … know … Nathan's dead, right?"

"Yes." Peter bit that word out with slightly bared teeth.

"But … you think I could still be him, is that it?" _Like he could be brought back from the dead through me with the right combination of powers?_ That was a frightening thought; even more that Peter apparently believed it. It made it even more important to correct Peter's thinking on this matter.

Peter's eyes narrowed. "I don't know. Are you?"

_**NO! **_Sylar clamped his lips shut firmly over that reflexive mental shout. Clasping his hands, he put them in front of his mouth to hold back any possible outburst. This was explaining a lot. Peter's most monstrous act looked so different now. He was starting to understand so many things Peter did and said as a consequence, how he treated Sylar … hell, how he treated other people and why he didn't question Sylar's name. "So … you think I am Nathan if I think I'm him. Is that right?"

Peter shrugged slightly. "I think you are Nathan if you are Nathan. I don't know if you are or not. Unless you're acting like him or talking like him. I don't know how else I'd know."

_And __if I were__ living his life, pretending to be him … __then you would say I was him__._ He remembered that hollow feeling of not belonging, not being right with the world that he'd had constantly as faux-Nathan. It made his stomach roil just to think about it. Gently, gently though, because he'd figured out what Peter's buttons and levers were and hitting him too hard with things would just make him defensive, Sylar asked, "Don't you see all of that was just an act, Peter?"

Peter cringed a little and some of the light went out in his eyes. Sylar felt his heart hurt in response, even though he didn't understand the reason for the pain he'd just inflicted, he could see that inflict it he had. Peter rubbed his knees anxiously and gave Sylar a pained look. "_You_ didn't think it was just an act."

"'You'. Look at me, Peter. Who am I?"

"Sylar."

"If I use shape shifting and I look like someone else, who am I then?"

Peter blinked successively. He looked uncertain, but what Sylar wanted was happening – Peter was listening, he was taking it in, he was thinking. "You're … Sylar. Looking like someone else."

"Okay." _Would he have thought I was actually the president if I'd managed to get to him for real? __I think he would have!_ The possibilities were mind-blowing. Peter's behavior towards him when he'd been labelled as his brother came back as well. Then from Nathan's memories, he recalled the easier switch in his inclusive, supportive, protective behavior towards Claire as soon as he found out she was his neice. Once the label was applied and as long as it stuck, Peter followed a set pattern of behavior in accordance with it. _Fucking black and white thinking! Let's see if I can show him the grey._ "Stay with me here. I was brainwashed into thinking I was someone else. That doesn't _make me_ that other person."

Peter again drew inward, like a very slow-motion response to being hit. A moment later he winced, shifted his weight uncomfortably, and squirmed a little. Sylar had another feeling that he was hurting the man, and badly. Hopefully it was more of the 'stripping away the bandage' type than reopening old wounds.

Very gravely, Sylar leaned forward and said slowly, "Who was I at Mercy Heights?"

Peter wouldn't look at him. He shrugged one shoulder and said, "Sylar," rather unconvincingly. Then he shrugged again like it didn't matter or was ambiguous.

"Who was I before you took my memories away?"

"Sylar." This time Peter was firm, and looked at him to answer.

"_After_ you took my memories away?" Sweat stood out on Sylar's brow. Even just talking about getting mind-wiped made him anxious - even knowing that Peter was (largely) harmless right now and that he was (mostly) safe.

"Well … you were …." Peter hunched his shoulders and covered his face, specifically his eyes. His breathing, previously regular enough, became uneven.

Sylar exhaled slowly as Peter either cried or nearly cried. Sylar swallowed. Peter's pain was a sign the conversation was changing his thoughts on the matter. He was starting to see, perhaps, that no one had been restored to life. He hadn't done anything good or helpful or healing or saving. It was vitally important to Sylar to get Peter to understand that he hadn't been dealing with Nathan at any point after the Stanton Hotel. Peter would never be able to see the injury that had been done to Sylar, or recognize how broken he really was, until he saw that it had been Sylar all along, with his identity deformed and maimed by abilities – first by Matt, then by Peter. "After you took away Sylar's memories, was that Nathan, or was it still Sylar, just without his memories?"

In a very soft voice, with his face still covered, Peter said, "I thought it was Nathan."

"Do you think it was Nathan **now**?"

With a wipe to his eyes followed by scrubbing his hand off on his jeans, Peter rose and left without answer. Sylar slumped back in his seat, triumphant but still sorry. He knew hounding Peter wasn't going to help. The guy was overwhelmed now. But he was overwhelmed because he had listened. There had been no denial or argument. Maybe there would be tomorrow. But for now, Sylar was going to count this as a painful, but necessary, win.


	62. Lessons in Extortion

**Title:** Extortion  
><strong>Characters: <strong>Sylar, Peter Petrelli  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>None  
><strong>Words: <strong>~1,250  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sylar tries to bend Peter to his will. Peter ends up bending Sylar instead.

* * *

><p>Sylar pressed his lips together firmly, eyes narrowing as he squared up across from Peter. This was something that had been bothering him since Peter had arrived here. It was something Sylar was going to do something about. "I'm going to put a chalkboard out on the sidewalk and every morning when you leave, you will mark on it with a piece of chalk. You promised me you wouldn't leave me here. This will prove you're keeping your word." He crossed his arms like this was a foolproof argument. No more would he be racked by paranoid fear that he was alone again after being unable to find Peter for a day or two. He would trap Peter with his own words and put a stop to it.<p>

Peter raised his brows, like 'seriously?' He rolled his eyes briefly. "I'm going to skip the part where you don't believe my promise because that's really insulting and I don't want to get in a fight. But there's something else going on. You're trying to _control_ me by manipulating me. You know, that 'manipulation' you were so upset about other people doing to you?" Peter reminded him tauntingly. "You're trying to _extort_ me just like they did to you to get me to do what you want. Well," Peter pointed vaguely in Sylar's direction, "I've got an extortion right back at you. You _ask_ me to give you some sign I'm still around every day, and I'll do it."

Sylar froze, staring at him. Was it that easy? After a few seconds and a slow blink, he said merely, "Okay."

A few beats passed. Peter, watching him levelly, said, "Ask."

That was when Sylar's facade crumpled a little as the realization that Peter was serious, and seriously was demanding Sylar ask, perhaps beg him, to do something rather than tell or demand, sunk in. It wasn't that easy after all. Sylar sputtered in indignation. "You want me to actually put into words ..." He made a sweeping hand gesture that started strong, then became weak as he imagined trying to say that to Peter. He didn't ask anyone for anything. He was Sylar! He was powerful. He was special.

"Yeah," Peter said in agreement. "I want you to actually put it into words. You put your demand into words. Now put it into words as a request."

Sylar drew himself up as tall as he could manage, even though the chance that bluster would help him was low. "It doesn't make any difference! You already said you'd do it!"

"No, I said I'd do it if you _asked_." Peter was starting to really enjoy this, a lot more than he would have had Sylar just rolled his eyes and pronounced the necessary syllables without a problem.

"But you're going to do it," Sylar said with a tone of hurt, possibly betrayal, in his voice. "Why does it matter what I say? The whole definition of a request is that you might not do it – you're not required to. You might back out."

"That's twice now you've called me a liar in this conversation," Peter observed drily.

Sylar frowned at him as though Peter was being exceptionally rude to point that out. "If you're not going to back out, then why do you want me to say that?"

"You need the practice."

"What?"

Peter huffed. "When you want something from me, I want you to ask. I want you to know that you _can_ ask. I don't want you sitting around thinking of how you can blackmail me into things. _Ask me_. No plots, no hidden agendas." Peter shook his head. "Don't be that person you hate so much, Sylar, who manipulates people into doing their dirty work for them. Instead, tell me why you want something. Tell me why it makes a difference to you. Lead me instead of shoving from behind."

Sylar stared at him for several long moments as he digested the words, then swallowed slowly. With a steady inhalation and exhalation, he intoned carefully, "Peter. Please ..." He hesitated, because the chalkboard really wasn't necessary. What he wanted was an indication that Peter hadn't left him. "Leave a sign, or a note or something, when you've gone out so I know where … so I know you're still around." He swallowed again, looking down and thinking that Peter was right in a way – he hadn't given nearly as much thought to what it was he wanted as he had to how to corner Peter into giving it to him.

"How about we put up a whiteboard in the rec room and I'll write a note on it when I'm going out?" Peter still wasn't happy about being made to answer as to his location, but it was a lot easier to get his agreement when he knew what it was that mattered to someone, rather than being given a random demand for obedience.

Sylar gave a broken, clumsy nod, not sure about this whole negotiation process. He'd never done it before. It was so much easier to fling someone against the wall with telekinesis and force what he wanted out of them, or merely take it from them. But he didn't have that as a tool here and besides, people tended to fear and hate him after he did that – even if the person he did it to was dead, others made things difficult for him because of it. "Maybe, um, putting it in the lobby would be better?"

"Like a marquee?"

Sylar's brows pulled together. A marquee didn't fit what they were talking about. "Outside? Over the door?"

"Yeah," Peter shrugged. "I could put it outside, but I just meant one of those signs that stand in hotel lobbies and say 'Welcome Whoever'." He gestured, indicating a four foot sign and moving his hands in a square display. Then he had another idea. "Or maybe one of those A-frame signs they have outside of restaurants sometimes. They write and erase on those all the time."

"That would be fine," Sylar said, still feeling out of his depth. He was more than a little weirded out that Peter was actually helping problem-solve for him. He wondered if he needed to make a mental note to go over Peter's deficient vocabulary in future, because that wasn't a marquee at all – it was a pedestal sign or a message board. The 'A-frame sign' was called a sandwich board. Would pointing that out be rude, or helpful? If they were going to talk things out, then what was appropriate? He had no idea how to navigate these unfamiliar waters.

"Okay," Peter nodded. "I'll look around this afternoon and find something. We can talk about it again tonight." He paused, looking at Sylar penetratingly. "Do you believe me?"

It would only be a few hours until it was proven whether or not Peter came back with a sign. That timeframe wasn't at all the anxiety-provoking uncertain forever of never knowing when Peter would or wouldn't stick around. Sylar could deal with a few hours, or even a day, which was why he wanted the sign – so that he wouldn't go days and days without knowing. "Yes."

"Good," Peter said. Hearing that, by itself, made it worth it for him.

* * *

><p><strong>Title:<strong> Lessons Learned  
><strong>Characters: <strong>Sylar, Peter Petrelli  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>None  
><strong>Words: <strong>~450  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sylar tries to teach Peter what a marquee is. Peter tries to teach Sylar how to teach him.  
><strong>Notes: <strong>This is straight EQ vs IQ.

* * *

><p>"A marquee is a sign up on a wall, advertising a movie or other event."<p>

Peter looked at Sylar blankly from over his lunch bowl of tomato soup with sour cream. "Uh-huh?"

Sylar exhaled as he sat down with his own bowl, plain. An explanation was in order. "You used it incorrectly earlier. What you were describing as a sign in a hotel lobby is just a display sign. A marquee is different."

Peter blinked at him. "Okay."

Sylar wondered if Peter was getting it. "So you understand?"

"They're both signs, right?"

Obviously, he wasn't. "Yes, but different kinds. If you'd just said signs, you would have been right. A marquee wouldn't have been any help for what we were talking about." Well, he supposed it would have helped if Peter were willing to install one, then climb up on a ladder whenever he was going to be gone for the day and change the display, maybe even coming up with creative ways to say he was gone, like riffing off movie titles or something like that. But that seemed unlikely. He pulled over the sleeve of saltines and put six of them into his soup.

"Okay." Peter nodded like it was settled. He went back to whatever it was he was doing with the sour cream dollop in his soup. He wasn't exactly stirring it, but it was more like he was trying to carve little bits out of it with his spoon.

Sylar watched for a moment, then asked, "You understand, right?"

"I understand it's important to you. I'll get a display sign from that hotel we walked past last week. I think I remember seeing one there."

Sylar's brows rose slightly, impressed. Peter didn't even sound miffed at being corrected. "You're easier to teach than I expected."

Peter grimaced. "You're not 'teaching' me anything, Sylar. You're telling me what's important to you and I'm respecting that."

Sylar paused, thinking over his own educational experiences and what he knew of Peter's. He didn't see Peter's point, aside from reflexive defiance (which he knew Peter had in spades). But he liked the idea of being respected. "What's the difference?"

"One is you trying to push something on me because you want me to know it for your benefit and do it on command. The other is me deciding you have a point and I'm okay with learning things that let me help you out."

Sylar … didn't get it. He knew he was being complimented; he just couldn't see what the distinction was. He nodded like he did, though, and quit while he was ahead.


	63. Adventures in Dreamland

**Title: **Adventures in Dreamland: The Hazards and Rewards of Sleeping with Peter Petrelli  
><strong>Characters: <strong>Peter Petrelli, Sylar  
><strong>Rating: <strong>R  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>One nocturnal emission, a couple nonconsensual kisses.  
><strong>Word count: <strong>5,000  
><strong>Setting: <strong>The Wall  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Scenes of Peter and Sylar sleeping together.  
><strong>Notes: <strong>Written for the 2013 Advent Calendar. To give some context for this - a few months after Peter arrives, Sylar begins to have nightmares of persecution and judgment. The sleep deprivation drives him mad, until Peter finally agrees to sleep with him, since Sylar felt that napping while Peter was around was the only time he was getting any rest. It's true and Sylar recovers, but he and Peter have to deal with Peter's sleeping habits along the way. They sleep clothed, with a layer of blankets between them (at least for now).

Many thanks to means2bhuman, who wrote Sylar's point of view for the first two of these. Some of these scenes will be incorporated into More Between Us Than A Wall.

* * *

><p><em>Night 1<em>

The sound of Peter's own voice woke him up from his dream. "It has glitter on it," he heard himself say. A moment later, he sat up, bleary-eyed, hands flexing in memory of kneading the squishy material he wasn't handling now. Bemused, he looked over the side of the bed, but there was no box there.

XXX

Sylar awoke to an odd sensation, a sound. He caught the end of something (somehow aware it was the end of a sentence or similar), '…But it has glitter on it.' At first, Sylar, having remained unmoved throughout this wake-up call, couldn't string the words together to make a damn sentence. "Petey?" he grumbled as soon as he identified his bed partner, his tongue heavy and dry. The room was dark but a light was distant, refracting off a hallway. Through that, he could see Peter's hands doing something curled or clutched in front of him. The other man woke and sat up to look around before noticing Sylar. _Um…is this bad?_ was his extremely unprepared response. "Petey?" he asked again.

XXX

"Huh?" Peter looked back. So Sylar really was in bed with him. Weird. He'd thought he was dreaming about that, too, because it was just as nonsensical as the rest. "I was giving your memories back, but they were made of red Play-Doh and one of them had glitter all over it." He laid back down with a sigh, letting Morpheus extend his shroud over him again without being the least troubled by a serial killer being in his bed. He'd never fully woken up anyway. Mumbling now, he added, "I thought the glitter was unsanitary, but you didn't care."

XXX

A weird feeling twisted in Sylar's gut, unrelenting as it spread through him warmly. Peter wanted to give him his memories back. It made all the difference in the world, that unrehearsed and unexpected admission. It was a very nice thought to snuggle up with, glitter or unsanitariness notwithstanding.

* * *

><p><em>Night 2<em>

Peter was not awake, but regardless, he was aware there might be someone in bed with him. He could smell them; he could feel their weight; he could hear them breathing. Still asleep, he tried to find them. It was involuntary and visceral. His hand groped blindly, finding a warm lumpiness in the blanket and something firmer and more irregular than the mattress underneath. This – this must be what he'd been sensing! The blanket, though, confounded him. He tugged at it, his face taking on a distressed expression and his breathing changing to include little huffs of frustration and disappointment. He pawed at the covering, trying in vain to move it out of the way. He wanted to touch. It was important, biological. He wanted the contact and his failure to secure it was upsetting.

XXX

Sylar came to with the feeling of being touched somehow, intentionally. During sleep that usually meant something very bad. The room was dark but a light was distant, refracting out of the hallway. Through that he could see Peter's hand outstretched, poking and feeling at him, plucking at the comforter between them. _Oh_, was all his mind had to say. A set of memories not his own classified this as familiar and requiring no questions. He knew instinctively that touching the young man would calm him and result in more, this time unbothered, sleep. Sylar laid his hand atop the searching one, pressing it to his abdomen through multiple layers of bedding and clothing. That was all it took. Peter relaxed and seemed to slip back into a more soundless, genuine rest. Sylar didn't mind at all to give this familial, close contact – in fact, it assisted his own return to sleep with a small smile on his face.

XXX

Peter woke to the feel of hair tickling his nose. "Unng," he grunted, pulling his face back and blinking. Fine hair, richly dark and slightly wavy, was directly in front of him. It was the back of someone's head, but whose? He sank down on his pillow again, puffing out air to blow away the tickling strands. It certainly wasn't Simone. It took him a few groggy moments to place why that wasn't possible. He assumed it must have come from some dream he'd had. But no, this wasn't her and he felt a pang of sadness about that. From the bit of neck he could see, he was with someone Caucasian.

_Where the hell am I? _He started to pull away from the person he was spooning so he could get his bearings, but the hand gripping his, which he hadn't even been aware of until now, tightened. He stopped and looked over the other's shoulder at where their hands were joined, pressed over the covers on the other's belly. Long, thin fingers with masculine nails wrapped around his own. _Sylar! _Although the appearance of Sylar's hand wasn't something Peter had memorized, it was still him. A look up at the man's face confirmed it. Everything came into focus then for Peter – he was in bed with Sylar, keeping away Sylar's nightmares, and Sylar apparently was okay with Peter's nocturnal wanderings.

He'd warned him – Peter had, that he wasn't a fraternal bed-partner who minded his own business on the opposite side of the bed. And Sylar, racked by nightmares so persistently that he had begun to suffer badly from sleep deprivation, didn't seem to care about the warning. It was enough to make Peter suspicious that Sylar might be exaggerating the night terrors as an excuse to get in bed with him, but he hadn't been faking the dark circles under his eyes, the irritability, increasing paranoia and clumsiness, and other symptoms. He wondered if Sylar was awake at the moment – it seemed possible, likely even – but Peter hadn't been paying attention to the other man's breathing and it seemed steady enough now.

He sighed, decision made instantly, and laid down to doze some more. As Peter drifted off, his conscious mind worked out why his subconscious thought going back to sleep was the best solution: Peter liked being snuggled up to people and this was the only guiltless chance he was going to get here in this crazy world. If Sylar was asleep, then he didn't know Peter was taking liberties and it didn't matter. If Sylar was awake, then as long as Sylar pretended to be asleep, he couldn't blame Peter. It was a win-win, as long as he could keep those dratted hairs out of his face.

* * *

><p><em>Night 3<em>

Peter settled in, turned off the light, and shifted to face away from Sylar as he usually did. And as he usually did, when sleep had settled over him or perhaps only nearly so, he rolled back the other way, an arm this time reaching out to find his companion, locating … touching. Only then did sleep take him fully.

* * *

><p><em>Night 4<em>

He rolled over in his sleep, facing away from Sylar for the moment. His foot snaked back, though, finding the other man's shins. There was a space between them, as they were not neatly and tensely stacked one leg atop the other. Peter pulled in air as he immediately wormed his foot into that space, releasing a small, happy, "Mmm!" of pleasure at being able to nest himself so securely.

* * *

><p><em>Night 5<em>

Sylar woke with Peter's face no more than two inches from his own. Somehow and somewhat concerningly, Peter had managed to get nearly on top of him as well. One leg sprawled possessively across Sylar's and one of Peter's arms held him around the shoulders. Peter seemed quite asleep. Sylar waited, but there was no hunching or fondling or other problematic activity going on. But there was no way _he_ was going to be able to sleep with someone else breathing in his face the whole night. He turned his face, his nose inadvertently brushing Peter's – they were so close. It provoked a slight shift of Peter's body and a small squeeze. Sylar sighed. It was nice, being held like this, even if he knew Peter didn't exactly mean it. It made him feel warm and loved even so. He looked longingly at Peter's peaceful, sleeping face (what he could make out with him at this proximity, in the dimness). Did all of this cuddling mean that at some level, Peter was okay with him? He didn't know. He shifted again, and again, Peter clutched him. Clearly, he didn't want to let go.

Sylar swallowed. He knew that what he was about to do was … wrong, or at least questionable. Morally grey, which for Sylar, was an improvement. But Peter was so close. He could feel Peter's breath on his cheek, holding him so tight. It was like they were lovers. And if Peter was as he had confessed and unaware of what he did while slumbering, then how would he ever be able to accuse? Sylar tilted his head and slowly, gently, pressed his lips to Peter's. Peter drew in breath, made a small noise in his throat, and kissed back. It was uncoordinated, at least on Peter's side, but it was a definite and genuine kiss. Sylar felt a thrill pass through him from head to toe. Peter broke off after a few seconds and nosed the side of Sylar's face, giving him another squeeze and raising his knee, rubbing his thigh over Sylar's.

Sylar could feel himself coming erect. How could Peter expect him to behave under this temptation? Since he'd gotten away with it once, he kissed Peter again, letting his lips pulse against Peter's. He gave a roll of his hips, rubbing them together and discovering he wasn't the only one turned on. Peter made another deep, soft sound of pleasure, before pulling in air and tensing all over as he woke up. _Oh shit. _Sylar held perfectly still, fully prepared to lie his ass off and say he was the wronged party here.

But he didn't need to. "Um," Peter said, lifting himself away and looking guilty. "Sorry," he whispered, groggily adjusting his crotch as he rolled over and put more than a foot between them. Sylar sighed after the other man resettled himself, far away. It was not so much in relief (although there was a little of that). Mostly it was yearning.

* * *

><p><em>Night 6<em>

Sylar was small. He was hiding in the closet, the one where he'd covered the white walls with red and black letters detailing his sins. The others were looking for him. He knew they'd find him, and soon. He could hear their distant footsteps. There were so many of them, so many people he'd wronged, so many times he'd sinned. He cowered behind the door, thinking maybe he was small enough so that when they opened it, as they surely would, he'd be behind it and unseen. But he knew that wouldn't work. There was too much writing on the walls. They'd stop to look, to read, and then they'd spy him out. It had all been a mistake! So many mistakes! So many bad decisions, one layering on another. He was destined to be the villain, the one everyone hated, everyone hunted. It wasn't what he wanted to be!

Hot tears welled up as he choked to keep himself quiet. He couldn't let them hear. They were already in the apartment, searching. They'd find this place very soon now. But maybe it didn't matter if they found him – they were going to anyway, and he wanted to give up, he wanted to die. He wanted to crawl and squirm and surrender and have it matter. He wanted to be forgiven so badly and yet he knew that was never going to come, because he was bad and people didn't forgive those who didn't have any goodness in them. He wanted to be good. He wished he _had_ been good. A mewling sob fought its way between his lips. The footsteps stopped, right outside his door. They had found him.

"Sylar?"

He gasped and almost choked again, his airway not working as it should. It was Peter's voice, he realized.

"Sylar?" The voice was soft, low, and sleepy, which didn't make sense.

The dubious reality of the closet faded, but it was still dark. Sylar felt something touching him on the hip and grabbed at it reflexively, his grip tightening on nothing more offensive than a pillow. He was in a bed, he saw.

"Hey, buddy." Peter released the pillow to him and went on, "You were having a nightmare, okay?"

Sylar blinked, feeling the wetness around his eyes and the humiliating pounding of his chest. He nodded, though he wasn't sure if Peter could see it or not. He didn't trust his voice yet. It would betray far too much weakness.

"Come here," Peter said, voice clearer now of the grogginess of sleep. He touched at Sylar's shoulder, apparently undeterred by the previous attack on the pillow.

Sylar turned towards him, though he was confused.

"Come here," Peter repeated, scooting himself closer because Sylar wasn't moving. Peter slipped arms around him and Sylar finally figured it out – a hug. Peter wanted to hug him. Maybe that was what Peter did, how he coped. He remembered Peter hugging him after talking him down from an attack of paranoia where he thought Peter was going to end him. It hadn't turned out that way; he'd been wrong. Now, as then, he burrowed his face into Peter's shoulder and upper chest, breathing heavily and unevenly. It might be shameful, but Peter had yet to use any of it against him. He wrapped his arms around Peter in return and shuddered as he accepted the enveloping protection of another. It felt so foreign … and so good.

* * *

><p><em>Night 7<em>

Peter woke, the last shreds of his dream telling him with certainty he was in bed with Nathan. But it was Sylar's face he saw, close and features clear in the pre-dawn light. Peter flashed to the time in the Odessa jail, when his odd, possibly precognitive dream had showed him Nathan replaced by Sylar when Peter glanced away. He had an intense, gut-twisting lurch in his middle that it was happening again and just like the first time, it was terrifying. He made a strangled yelp and scuttled back, pushing, shoving and kicking to get away.

Peter fell off the edge of the bed as he'd expected, bouncing to his feet with stunning alacrity. He staggered, off-balance, against the wall and window, his mind racing as he tried to remember how high off the ground the apartment was and whether he still had regeneration to survive a fall – he was _that _rattled that leaping out the window was a considered option. He struggled to get his breath. Sylar propped himself up on an elbow, but was otherwise silent. For several long moments, nothing happened.

Finally, Peter forced himself to move forward, putting his knee on the edge of the bed as he reached out slowly with his right hand. Sylar watched it come for him. _If he so much as says 'boo', I'm going to hit him,_ Peter thought, his hand finding Sylar's shoulder and gripping it. He was real. Solid. Peter swallowed, let go, and backed up. He raked through his hair with his left hand and shook his head. His heart was still pounding with fear. His fingers and toes felt pins and needles from the adrenalin. He wanted to get out of this room, out of Sylar's sight, away from the bed and the confusing emotions. He bent and swiped his shoes, shuffling out from behind the bed and going to the nearest chair, where he sat to put them on.

Sylar swept back the blankets and stood. "What are you doing?"

Peter didn't answer. He loosened the laces on the tops of his shoes, thinking that he should have just carried the shoes with him out into the hall. He was fortunate that he slept more-or-less dressed with Sylar, so his state of dress wouldn't slow him down from leaving.

"Where are you going?" Sylar moved between Peter and the door.

Peter shoved his feet into his shoes and stood, not taking the time to tie them. He grabbed up his coat.

Alarmed, voice upset, Sylar put his arms out to the sides a little and tried to command him. "Don't leave!"

There was a frightened tremor in Sylar's voice that shook Peter out of his self-centeredness. He thought about how this must look from Sylar's point of view – waking to find Peter fleeing him, refusing to stay in the same room, not even talking to him. How was he to know that all Peter was going to do was go downstairs and work out or maybe take a walk until he felt centered again? As far as Sylar knew, Peter had snapped and didn't want to be near him ever again. Peter sighed heavily and dropped the coat. He brushed past Sylar roughly, more pushing the man out of his way than anything else, proving to himself that Sylar wasn't keeping him from leaving. Peter stalked into the kitchen instead, taking a beer from the fridge and opening it on the edge of the counter, heedless of whether it scratched the finish or not.

He came back, slumped in his seat, and drank the top third of the beer in one long swallow. When he came up for air, he glared briefly at Sylar before looking away. Quietly, Sylar took the opposite seat. Peter swirled the bottle slowly. "You weren't even there. Not really."

"Hm," was all Sylar said as he waited for the inevitable explanation.

Peter wondered if he'd ever told this one to anyone either. He didn't think so. Sylar had quite the collection of 'things Peter had never told another person'. Mainly, he was the only person who listened. Peter wasn't sure if Sylar cared, but he did at least listen and that was nice. "After Odessa, when you and I jumped off the stadium, the cops took me in. They put me in an observation cell, I think. I was covered with blood but they couldn't find any injuries. I told them I was fine, but I was … uh, a little hysterical, maybe. I think they were letting me calm down. But I fell asleep, so I guess that's calm. I either hallucinated or dreamed. I thought Nathan came to save me. He was nice, friendly. I hugged him. He sat next to me. He was supportive, but trying to explain to me why what I was doing wasn't going to work."

Peter took another long drag from his beer, self-medicating his tension since he was blocked from exercising. "I looked away for a moment and when I looked back, it wasn't Nathan. It was you. You were in a … uniform, like a delivery service. UPS or something, wearing a baseball cap. You told me I didn't know anything about power." He grimaced sullenly in Sylar's direction, unhappy with the possible truth of that. "It scared the crap out of me." He drank again, trying to dull the memory that was still too sharp in his mind. There was less than a fourth of the liquid left in the bottle. Peter shook his head and then pulled his feet out of his shoes. "I don't know what it was about waking up right then, but … I ..." He shrugged and looked away, then finished the beer. "You want to go back to bed with me?"

Sylar looked surprised and didn't answer, but he rose and went to the bed with a glance back to make sure Peter was making his way to the other side. Peter fussed with the blankets and climbed on top of the main layer, with Sylar under it.

Peter waited for a moment as Sylar settled in, then asked, "Could you face away?"

Sylar nodded and Peter caught the look of disappointment as he turned. Peter figured Sylar assumed he didn't want any chance of waking up again to the sight of his face, but that wasn't it. Peter scooted closer, his hand lingering on Sylar's back where the blanket didn't cover it. He could see Sylar tilt and raise his head slightly in an 'I'm listening/what are you doing?' pose.

"May I?" Peter asked, timid now because he was asking something Sylar might take the wrong way. Sylar put his head down and might have nodded, but he definitely didn't shake his head. Peter came closer and touched his forehead to Sylar's back, his arms gathered up between them and his knees against what was probably the back of Sylar's thighs. He wasn't thinking of Sylar as Nathan and he hoped Sylar didn't think he was. Peter wasn't expecting that level of comfort from him. He wasn't expecting anything. He just wanted to be close to a human being as he calmed down, as he let the memories drain away, as he tried to let go of the past. But it was Sylar's scent thick in his nostrils and his body Peter was pressed against.

It was no surprise to Peter when he woke an hour or so later that he was truly spooning him, cupped as close as the clothes and layer of blankets would allow. Peter's right arm was wrapped around Sylar's middle with Sylar's hand over Peter's – it wasn't the first time and not even the first time he'd done it more or less intentionally. Peter's face was mashed sideways against the taller man's back. He pulled away slowly, wondering how long it would be before they did away with the barriers of clothing and blankets … and wondering if that would be as wrong as he'd originally thought it was.

* * *

><p><em>Night 8<em>

In his dream, Peter had a headache. That seemed to be the entirety of the dream – pain. It was very specific. If you drew a line vertically down his face, the pain was seated along that line an inch above his brows, just where the supposed third eye would be located. It had been trivial at first, but as minutes passed, it began to ache. It felt like someone were pressing the rounded end of a ball peen hammer to his forehead, pressing relentlessly and he couldn't get away from it. It was doubly frustrating because not only did he want to be free of the pain, but he wanted to move forward. He wanted to be closer. He wanted comfort and warmth and yet the pain was keeping him away from all of that. He made a whimpery noise in protest, but nothing came of it. He still hurt and he was starting to hurt inside, as the physical pain translated to emotional, as it started to take on meaning as a cruel rejection from the opportunity to love.

It was the second sad, plaintive sound from his throat that roused Peter from sleep – that, and the awareness the pain wasn't a fabrication of his mind. It was still there when he woke. His eyes opened sleepily to find himself staring up the length of Sylar's forearm, the point of the man's elbow jammed solidly against Peter's forehead. The weight of Sylar's arm rested on him, as it had for who-knows-how-long. The arm was raised, cocked and bent protectively around Sylar's head. Peter had seen him sleep a few times that way. He couldn't imagine it himself. Wasn't it bad blood flow to keep an arm elevated like that for so long? Didn't it get numb?

With a grimace, he pulled his head back, scowling as he rubbed at the spot that had been afflicted by Sylar's bony elbow. The thing he'd been trying to get closer to but been held at half-arm's distance from was Sylar, he realized. He sighed, wondering if Sylar's defensive head-guarding was an attempt to ward off Peter's somnolent cuddling. Even if it wasn't, Peter felt rejected anyway. He frowned at the uncooperative object of his affections. Sylar's arm dipped and wavered, his elbow seeking the convenient prop that had gone missing. With an angry snort, Peter rolled over the other way, rubbing at his head again and petulantly leaving Sylar alone if that was the way the man wanted to be.

* * *

><p><em>Night 9<em>

There was something about the sound of sex. It was primal, encoded into the deepest reaches of the brain. Sylar made sense of the sounds instantly, lighting up with awareness. He was still, lying on his back on the sheets, blankets bunched around his midsection. To his right was Peter, face pressed to Sylar's shoulder, forehead to deltoid, or so Sylar saw when he finally opened his eyes and turned his head slightly to see. Peter's extra layer of blanket was somewhere around hip level and he was lying on his side facing Sylar. The only place they were touching, though, was where his face rooted against Sylar's upper arm as some dream played out behind closed lids.

But the sex – it was very clear what sort of dream was entertaining Peter. His breathing and the long, low, soft moans gave it away. Sylar had to wonder how similar it would be to the sounds Peter might make while having real, wakeful sex. They were definitely arousing. Peter's head shifted and moved, warm and flushed against Sylar's bare skin. Peter's lips dragged across him, complete with uncoordinated mouthing. _So, he does like to kiss,_ Sylar thought. _Just not me_. He'd assumed as much. Peter wasn't shy about using his mouth to show affection, as he'd seen in Nathan's memories.

Peter moved an arm forward, the back of his curled fingers brushing against Sylar's forearm. "Mmm, um," he said, but didn't get more articulate than that. Sylar's lips curled. It would be fascinating if Peter would let slip a name and make it well worth being woke up in the middle of the night. Peter's breathing was speeding and becoming strained. His hips made a few jerky, rolling motions. _Is he fucking, or being fucked? _Sylar wondered, but couldn't tell. Peter's peak came fast as such things often did in dreams. The whole affair had taken no more than a couple minutes. _Ah, there it is,_ Sylar thought as Peter's last, loudest moan cut off in the middle, Peter held his breath for a few seconds, then all the tension bled out of him.

Curious, Sylar fluffed the topmost blanket once, inhaling deeply. _Yes, definitely._ The scent was heavy and almost as stimulating as the delicious sounds Peter had been cooing into his shoulder. Peter wasn't done yet – no rolling over and falling asleep afterward and Sylar suspected that this, at least, would be consistent even when Peter was awake. Peter continued to move his face against Sylar's arm, trying clumsily to kiss in between soft sighs. His hand moved a few more times, making fitful contact with Sylar's forearm.

Sylar turned, reaching across himself to touch Peter's shoulder and stroke down his arm, petting him soothingly. He knew he probably shouldn't; he'd be safer to just leave it alone and let Peter go back to his slumber, waking none-the-wiser. But something inside Sylar wouldn't let that happen. They'd had a moment, however one-sided, and he wasn't going to let Peter off the hook so easily. So he didn't care when Peter's breathing changed as he woke; Sylar had wanted that. He kept slowly stroking Peter's arm, smiling warmly at him just to fuck with Peter's head.

Brown, puzzled eyes met his, then Peter looked down at the hand smoothing over his arm. He licked his lips uneasily and asked, "What happened?"

"You had an 'emission'," Sylar said, letting his voice adopt a conspiratorial tone. He laid on his back again, using the hand that had been lately stroking Peter's arm to prop his head up.

Peter's glance down at his groin was as comical as it was obvious. He dipped his head as though wanting to hide his face, but he still asked Sylar, "Are you okay?"

Sylar raised his brows. "Have your 'emissions' been known to be dangerous in the past? What kind of strange abilities did you pick up back in the day?"

"Um," Peter coughed. "Um, no, nothing like that." Uncertainly he continued, "I didn't do anything?"

Sylar purred, "You made sweet, sweet love to my arm. The rest of me wouldn't mind a little attention," he invited, letting his voice drop to a rumble.

Peter gulped. "Um … no."

"Hmm, too bad. Maybe I should take matters into my own hands?"

"No." Peter's voice was much firmer, having lost the adorable fogginess of sleep. He finally moved away from Sylar, backing up about a foot.

Sylar looked him over. Peter was stiff, but not in a good way. He was tense now with a defensiveness Sylar could see even in the dark. It wouldn't do to wind him up too much. To the contrary, ultimately Sylar would rather Peter were more comfortable about the whole thing. He realized the teasing had been a bad idea. Soberly he said, "What you did was perfectly natural and it didn't bother me in the least."

"Okay," Peter said, although he sounded unconvinced. He rolled on his side to face away. He pulled up the blanket to his armpits, apparently oblivious to the fresh wafting scent of maleness that released. "I didn't mean to," he said over his shoulder.

Sylar inhaled deeply. "I know." Oh, he knew alright, and that was the bitter part – a waking Peter didn't want him at all, not yet. But eventually.


	64. Favorite Parts

**Title:** Favorite Parts  
><strong>Characters: <strong>Peter Petrelli, Sylar  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>None  
><strong>Words: <strong>350  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall, or after the Wall, or in any AU where Peter and Sylar are together and intimate, navigating their relationship.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter blurts out his feelings one day, leaving Sylar trying to figure out how to gracefully respond.

* * *

><p>"I love you," Peter told him. It was kind of out of the blue, but it was true. He felt better for putting it into words.<p>

Sylar was silent a moment, holding his breath. He looked spooked and finally said, "What do you expect me to say to that?"

"Say you love me back, if you do."

Sylar blinked, then a sly expression settled on his face. He walked over to Peter and put a hand on his shoulder. It slid down, around, and over his back. "You're right. I _do_ love your back." He patted it a few times for emphasis.

Peter laughed, trying not to look like the raging insecurity-monster that he was. "Isn't there anything else you like about me?"

Sylar's hand slid down further and he stepped behind Peter, bending. "I like these, too – your ass." He kneaded slowly, something he liked to do in bed, too. His hands went to Peter's hips and just a little above and in front of them. "This spot – these spots. I love them." His hands rose to Peter's ribs. "And these, too." He moved around in front. Peter was smiling, amused at how specific the areas were. "And here," he said, putting two fingers to Peter's breastbone, eyes locked on Peter's body as though looking for other bits to point out his adoration of. Peter supposed it was too much to hope that Sylar might appreciate him for something more than the physical. He sighed, the smile slipping away. The joke wasn't funny anymore; insecurity had him in its jaws. Sylar looked up at him intently. "But none of them can compare to how I feel about this one." He gently laid his hand over Peter's heart. "Right here."

Peter's frown disappeared and his eyes widened, brows rising a little as his ego rebounded.

"I love your heart so much. There's only one part of you I love even more, Peter." Sylar reached up, putting hands on either side of Peter's head. "This." He tilted Peter's head and kissed him softly, then with passion as Peter wrapped his arms around him.


	65. Fuck Marry Kill

**Title: **Fuck, Marry, Kill  
><strong>Characters: <strong>Sylar, Peter Petrelli  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG-13  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Allusions to very kinky behaviors  
><strong>Word count: <strong>700  
><strong>Setting: <strong>The Wall  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Sylar and Peter are walking along when Sylar proposes a game of 'Fuck, Marry, Kill.' 

"So," Sylar said as they walked along the empty streets, "Fuck, Marry, Kill: Noah Bennet … Angela Petrelli … and Claire." He grinned smugly at Peter. The man had been too quiet for Sylar's liking. This would get him going, surely.

Peter gave him a side-eye, then huffed and hunched his shoulders against the chill air. "Marry … Angela." That surprised Sylar. He would have expected her to get 'kill'. Then Peter explained himself, "Because it's illegal and would be annulled automatically." _Ah, clever,_ thought Sylar. "Kill Claire, because she'd regenerate." Sylar nodded. That made sense. He should have thought of that before and substituted someone else, like Nathan or that Hesam guy Peter had mentioned was his work partner. "And … um ..." Sylar's smug grin returned as Peter hesitated. He'd neatly sidestepped the first two, but there was nothing to do about the last but bite the bullet. "Yeah," Peter conceded. "I guess that means … yeah."

"Means what?" Sylar said with mock innocence.

Peter sighed. "Fuck Noah," he said emphatically enough that it sounded like a curse rather than a course of action. Before Sylar could gloat too much, Peter shot back, "Fuck, Marry, Kill: Luke, Mohinder, and …" Peter had to think a moment, before concluding with, "Me."

Sylar was silent, his expression impassive as he combined roles and names for the optimal configuration. It only took a moment. "Fuck you, marry Luke, kill Mohinder."

"Any explanation?"

"No."

Peter snorted. "Fine. Then I won't play it with you anymore."

Sylar frowned at the blackmail. Peter had to have his fun or else there was no fun at all. "I can't marry a man, no one can. And I can't marry a kid, so I wouldn't really be married to Luke. Mo would be dead, and you'd be fucked in any case." He smirked at that last.

"Women can marry men."

Sylar looked at him, thought about exactly what he'd said, and rolled his eyes. "That wasn't what I meant."

"It's what you said." Sylar didn't dignify it with an answer. Peter went on, "And depending on the country, you can marry a kid. Or state. I think Kansas has a marriage age of fourteen. Wasn't Luke like fifteen or sixteen?"

"Then I pick one where it's illegal," he snapped. "If you get to cheat with Angela, then so do I!"

"Arthur's dead. The only way you'd be cheating with Angela is if you were still married to Luke."

Sylar almost missed a step. Peter wasn't stopping to think of these outrageous things – he was clearly blurting them out as fast as he thought of them. The surprise wasn't the concepts themselves, it was that they were lurking somewhere inside Peter's fascinating brain, just waiting to get out whenever he declined to engage the usual filter. Sylar had thought he was the only one with that twisted a mind.

"You and I could have a threesome with her," Sylar offered.

"I'd be too busy fucking Noah," Peter deadpanned. Apparently fucking his mother was something Peter didn't want to contemplate. Sylar didn't blame him.

"How do you think you'd like that?"

"I think he'd get the job done. He's real big on that."

"Hm," Sylar hummed, enjoying Peter's play on Noah being an all-business Company man. "Do you think he's 'real big' where it counts?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Peter snarked. "Luke not packing enough punch for you?"

"I don't mind being the one in the relationship who's doing the packing."

Peter laughed, reaching over to give Sylar's shoulder a little shove. "That's good! That's good."

"Luke wasn't going to be the one I was fucking, anyway," Sylar said as he recovered from the unexpected push.

"Yeah, I caught that," Peter said, flashing him an oddly warm smile.

Sylar wished he knew what those looks meant. Peter always turned down his propositions, but then he gave these looks sometimes that were welcoming and even flirty. It made Sylar think he wouldn't be turned down forever. Which was good – it looked like he had forever to work on it. If he couldn't play with Peter in _that _way, then he'd play with him in this and maybe eventually they'd get to the other.


	66. Fragile

"Baby, I didn't mean-"

Sylar's snort of displeasure cut Peter off. Before Peter could resume the irritating defense of himself, Sylar snapped, "Why do you always call me 'baby' anyway?" It was something Peter had started doing since they'd been sleeping together, which was only a few days ago. Their relationship was in serious flux. It seemed like even the smallest thing set them off anymore.

Peter hesitated, his face showing that he knew he was in hot water. Sylar found the pause suspicious, but Peter's words didn't lag long enough to make Sylar think he was lying – not outright, at least. Peter pursed his lips and tilted his head in a conciliatory gesture as he said, "Because you're precious, you're innocent, and I want to take care of you." When Sylar only glared at him, Peter's expression faded to hurt and guarded.

Sylar wasn't sure whether to be offended or … he supposed Peter intended flattery with that pap, but he wasn't sure. He growled, "I'm hardly 'innocent'."

Peter sulled up and took a half-step away from him. But he gamely persisted in painting Sylar in the best possible colors. "If you had been given different choices by life, you would have made different decisions. You aren't responsible for what happened to you." His voice softened towards the end.

"But I _am_ responsible for the decisions I made," Sylar said insistently, angry all over again. Peter wasn't taking him or his past seriously. He was mocking it with this 'baby' business. It was insulting.

Peter's head pulled back. Otherwise, he didn't move for a few moments, but his eyes showed the hurt. Finally, he said, "I respect that." He looked away and down, withdrawing into himself.

_I am an idiot!_ Sylar thought as he realized he was stupidly trying to get Peter to admit Sylar was an irredeemable monster. Peter's only sin at the moment was wanting to entertain the fantasy that Sylar was worth loving. And so what if Peter's fantasy included mild infantilization? It was better than imagining Sylar as guilty for all the wrongs he'd committed. Even Sylar knew that wasn't attractive – at least not to the sort of person he wanted to love him. And that was the issue. He didn't think he was worthy of the affection he'd been getting, and so he was running hot and cold to Peter every second since he'd finally convinced the Italian to bed him. He went to Peter, raising his hands to cup either of Peter's cheeks, painfully aware of the flinch away from him. "I'm sorry." Sylar kissed him tenderly and Peter stood for that.

Peter kissed him back dutifully, then turned his face to the side to say thickly, "It's not your fault. I got my feelings hurt, but I'm a big boy, like you always say. It'll be fine."

_Ah!_ He'd been engaged in the same name-calling and not realized that, either. "I'm-" he cut himself off from another useless apology and substituted something better to say, but harder. "I'm a … baby. Don't stop …" He paused to choke on his pride, hoping Peter could fill in the blanks. Clearing his throat, he tried to change the subject, at least a little. "You want to take care of me?"

Peter turned his face back to him, looking up at him with wary hope. He touched Sylar's sides – a light, tentative contact, like he was testing. "I like taking care of people."

Sylar leaned into him gratefully, breathing out in relaxation as Peter slipped his arms around him. It felt like something might break inside of him and he needed Peter holding him to keep it safe. "You take such good care of me," he murmured into Peter's hair, shutting his eyes and letting the tension bleed away.


	67. The Fourth Stage

**Title:** The Fourth Stage  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar, Peter  
><strong>Words:<strong> 1800  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> The occasional f-word  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sylar finds Peter in a depressed fugue over Nathan's passing. He doesn't know what to do to help, but he tries.  
><strong>Note:<strong> The Fourth Stage of the Kubler-Ross model of Grieving is depression.

* * *

><p>Sylar rode the elevator to the ground floor, exiting and heading for the door. Something he caught out of the corner of his eye arrested his progress. He stopped and looked again. Peter was in the recreation room already. That was a first – usually Peter was out roaming around and Sylar had to find him. But that wasn't the only novel thing. Sylar's companion was crouched on the overstuffed leather sofa, huddled into the corner of it. He held a baseball in his left hand. Leaning against the arm of the sofa was a baseball bat. He glared at Sylar with the most intense hate Sylar had ever seen, which was saying a lot.<p>

Sylar walked to the doorway with slow, measured steps. If it weren't for the ball in Peter's hand, he'd have thought the man was lurking down here with the bat, waiting to assault him. Peter made no move to get up, so maybe he was safe. Marginally.

Peter was still glaring death at him. He growled, "Go somewhere else, Sylar."

Sylar cocked his head. Obviously, Peter wanted to be alone. But as far as that went, he probably didn't want to be here at all. Neither did Sylar, really. People didn't get what they wanted very often. Sylar saw no advantage in granting Peter's wish. "I live here," he answered, casually leaning against the doorframe to signal how unthreatened he was.

"Go find something to do somewhere else." Peter's teeth were bared.

"Hm." Sylar leaned his head against the frame, too, and blinked innocently at Peter. If he provoked the man enough, would he really take up that bat and use it? What was putting him in such a bad mood? "Did you have a bad dream? I've told you that you can sleep with me."

Peter's shoulders gave a shudder. "Go." His eyes seemed to go unfocused a moment later.

Sylar waited until Peter's hand moved to the bat. Instead of leaving, he walked brazenly into the room, over to the upright piano. The only activity of interest he had planned today was dogging Peter's heels and seeing what the other man was up to. Peter was usually busy with various projects that were pointless in Sylar's eyes but meaningful to Peter. In either case, the activity was a relief to Sylar. Peter was interesting, if frustrating and annoying at times (even if those were most of the time, it was still better than being bored). This moodiness was new. That Peter would leave his apartment and come over here to be moody and incalcitrant in public was … well, based on Nathan's memories, Sylar knew that was Peter. He wanted to be seen, even if he wouldn't admit it. Sylar raised the lid on the piano, peering inside at the wires and felt-covered hammers.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Peter snapped. His tone was still nasty, but his voice no louder.

Sylar knew that was not good. He suspected Peter was still holding the bat, but at least he'd moved back to full sentences and engaging. Without looking back (but listening attentively in case Peter rose), he answered, "It's out of tune. I thought I might take a look at it."

"Get … out of here. Something else."

_Incomplete sentences now_. That was even more dangerous than the earlier zoning out. Sylar let his eyes slide back to Peter. He couldn't see it, but he suspected the man was shaking. As amusing as it was to push the envelope of Peter's self-control, he didn't know enough about what had set Peter off to get much joy out of it. He wasn't even sure it involved _him_. He exhaled and replaced the lid of the piano before leaving the room entirely.

He didn't stay gone for long, returning from a trip upstairs with a book of baseball statistics and history. Peter had gone back to being vacant-eyed and fondling the baseball. He looked alarmed and angry as Sylar waltzed right over to the couch and sat himself down on the other end. Sylar opened the book to a likely spot and began to read, giving no attention whatsoever to the seething eyes directed at him from only a few feet away.

"What are you doing?" Peter hissed.

"Something else – just like you said." He expected more of a fight than he got. After a few more minutes of staring (which should have been brief, but felt like a small eternity to Sylar), Peter flopped over to his side against the arm of the couch and did nothing. When Sylar's peripheral vision told him it was safe, he glanced over. Peter seemed to have withdrawn into his own little world. He was cuddling the baseball and staring into space.

Sylar sighed and flipped through the book to find the start of a chapter, rather than the random page he'd begun with. He wanted to complain that he was not equipped to handle Petrelli drama queens, but, well, honestly, he was probably better equipped than most. He could be very patient when necessary and he knew most of Peter's tricks. Among other things, he didn't think this was an attempt to manipulate him – at least not an intentional one. Peter was upset and he wanted to be upset in the company of others, but apparently not Sylar or else he wouldn't have tried to run him off. Peter's hindbrain probably hadn't clued that there was no one else other than Sylar to be upset near. If Sylar was not welcome, then the upset was probably because of something Sylar did. He hadn't done anything lately to trigger this sort of ... whatever it was Peter was doing. That left the issue of Nathan.

He kept reading. There wasn't much he could do about Nathan, much like he couldn't do anything about the other murders. On the one hand, he wanted to shrug his shoulders and move on – it had happened, it was over, why couldn't people accept the new reality without whoever-the-fuck in it? On the other hand, he had this void inside of him where his mother used to live, and his dreams of his father, his dreams of being a Petrelli or the even shorter-lived one of being linked to Claire (a pencil in the eye had shown him the error of those thoughts, though he'd gotten the hint thoroughly enough using Lydia's ability). He was empty, hollowed out, and made purposeless by those losses. Was that how Peter felt about Nathan?

As if on cue, Peter sniffled. Sylar's head jerked around sharply, aghast at this breach of appropriate behavior. There were tears wetting Peter's face, leaking down the side of his nose and around his nostrils, where Peter was currently wiping them off with his sleeve. _Nasty_, Sylar thought. _And weak_. All his parent's admonishments about crying welled up in Sylar's mind – it was childish, pointless, noisy, distracting, made them angry, they'd give him something to cry about, it didn't matter, he wouldn't get his way with tears, he was a sissy, he was a baby, he was pathetic and worthless and vile. He stared at Peter. Why was he crying so openly? Was he not ashamed of it? That seemed the very opposite of weakness. Either that, or Peter was so far gone he didn't care.

Disquieted, Sylar went back to his book. He had less of an idea of how to tend a crying Peter than one who was brimming with rage. A few minutes later, Peter shifted and nudged his feet against Sylar's thigh. He thought at first Peter was trying to urge him off the couch so he could stretch out, but that wasn't it. It was the contact alone Peter was seeking. He'd stopped weeping, at least. Peter pulled up the baseball bat (an event that caused Sylar no small degree of tension) and hugged it.

Sylar sighed and put his hand on Peter's sock-clad, top-most foot. If Peter was touching him, then Sylar got to touch back, right? Peter cuddled the stupid baseball gear and didn't object, so that seemed to be how things worked. Warmth slowly suffused his hand and the spots on his leg where Peter's feet were against him. It was nice. Then Peter made a noisy, hiccupping swallow. Sylar put the book down. He did not want Peter to start crying again, especially not if he was going to be loud about it this time. That would drive him from the room faster than any threat of physical pain.

"You can hit me," he offered.

Peter lifted his head to look over at him, groggy, with eyes red-rimmed and hair in disarray. Sylar wondered how his hair had become so messed up from simply lying there. "What?" Peter said after a moment.

"I said you can hit me," he repeated, "if it would make you feel better."

Peter snorted and let his head settle. "Why would that make me feel better?"

"Because you're angry at me."

"I'm grieving. I'm not angry," Peter said bleakly. Being self-aware didn't seem to be helping his mood.

"Fine. Then you're grieving, angry, and in denial. You can still hit me."

"With the bat?" Peter asked, still lying down and not looking at Sylar. He didn't sound hopeful so much as curious.

"Yes," Sylar answered calmly, knowing that being hit like that was probably a death sentence. Offering himself up to the relatives of those he'd killed was something he'd done more than once.

Peter was silent. Sylar had to wonder if he was thinking it over. Peter shifted the bat in his hands a few times and finally tossed it aside, out of reach. "I don't want to hit you with the bat," Peter said sullenly. He sniffed. "Why do you think that would help anything?"

"There was … someone else – Elle. I killed her father. She was … very angry about that." Sylar wrapped his hand around the top of Peter's foot, looking down at that continued contact. Peter was touching him, wanted to touch him, wanted to draw comfort from him no matter what Sylar had done. He remembered the brief but passionate relationship he'd had with Elle. It could have been so much better. He wondered if things could be better between himself and Peter, if they could ever get this Nathan thing out of the way. Peter lifted his head again to look at him, so he went on, "I … let her kill me. And … she got over it."

"She got over you killing her dad?" Peter said, voice blank.

"Yes."

"I'm not going to get over you killing Nathan."

Sylar nodded silently, still looking down at where he cupped Peter's foot. What if Peter didn't get past it any more than Sylar had over killing Virginia? He gave Peter's foot a squeeze and Peter pressed it against Sylar's thigh in response. Sylar smiled a little, fleeting and tiny and sincere. He wasn't sure he wanted Peter to get over it, anyway. Maybe it was time to accept that sometimes, people never let go of their loved ones.


	68. Soporific

**Title:** Soporific  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter Petrelli (others imagined)  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Fantasy sex, masturbation, thoughts of incest  
><strong>Words:<strong> 1100  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sylar has revealed to Peter that not all of Nathan's thoughts of Peter were pure. Peter finds himself surprisingly turned on by that.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> This will make more sense once we get chapter 91 of More Between Us Than a Wall published. It will also be referenced again in chapter 95.

* * *

><p>Peter sat on the end of his bed, straddling one of the corners. His shirt was discarded nearby, along with socks and shoes – pants were still on, though. His fingers traveled from mid-chest to his shoulder, feeling along where Sylar had gripped it as he told him about Nathan's feelings for him. It was a lot to process. Even though Peter had walked away from Sylar and his offer, he couldn't walk away from his own thoughts. He'd spent the day running from them, but he knew there was no sleep to be had until he dealt with them.<p>

'_Some of his love wasn't so brotherly, Peter.'_ That was what Sylar had said. What would that have been like, being with Nathan, in bed, intimately? It was somehow easier to think of now that Nathan was gone. Whatever Peter considered or fantasized or decided wasn't going to make for an awkward Sunday brunch. That ship had sailed, leaving him free to consider what might have been, had he been a passenger.

He rubbed his shoulder slowly, unconsciously recreating Sylar's touches upon him. Would Nathan have trod him as roughly in sex as he did in real (non-sexual) life? Would he have been as callous and falsely careless about Peter's feelings? Would fucking Peter have just been an extension of the older, wiser, telling-Peter-how-to-run-his-life brother that Nathan was? Or would Nathan have let down the façade? Would the intimacy have cracked the tough pretense and maybe in bed he would be … gentle, or even considerate? Was it possible? It seemed unlikely. He was Nathan, after all. His basic character wouldn't change. But what if Peter was the one who was dominant? Could that even happen? Peter wondered. Nathan was … soft inside. 'Weak', Peter's parents would have called it and it seemed preposterous that neither of them ever seemed to see that. They were too busy projecting onto their eldest son what they wanted him to be, Peter supposed. How would that 'weakness' play out in bed? Did, maybe, Nathan want to be topped? Topping and domination didn't necessarily go hand-in-hand as Peter was well aware, but with Nathan he was pretty sure the two would be inseparable. Would Nathan allow it?

Peter opened his pants with his right hand, pushing them down. He was suddenly hard – painfully so in the confines of his jeans. Finally free, he touched himself lightly. His lids fluttered as the fingers of his left hand, still lingering on his shoulder, moved up to trace the spots where Sylar's mouth had kissed his neck this morning, before their fight. "Mmm." He made a soft, unashamed moan. No one could hear him. Even if exploring with Nathan was impossible (not that he ever would have, he told himself, even knowing Nathan had had 'thoughts'), there was still Sylar. Peter had denounced the idea of doing Sylar-as-Nathan and such a thing still struck him as depraved, but the idea of doing Sylar-as-Sylar, Nathan's memories and all – maybe that wasn't so depraved. Certainly Sylar was eager to try it.

He stroked faster. It wouldn't take long – he could feel it. Something about this subject turned his crank so hard that it would take him little more than seconds. The skin on his neck, a little up from where Sylar had kissed him, was hot and tender from where he'd been bitten. _Sylar … Sylar did that_. He'd done it when he could have done worse; done it instead of making any more effective attempt to avoid Peter's blows. It was like he'd exposed himself to the pain just for the opportunity – he wanted Peter that badly. Peter pressed at the sensitive flesh. It hurt. His dick stiffened further, if that was even possible. He groaned aloud, thinking he would come right then, but he only skirted the delicious edge before easing back. What else was it Sylar had said_? 'I want to ruin you, possess you, use you …'_ Oh yes. Peter wasn't going to allow any of that. It was dangerous, as well as stupid. But like with Nathan, what if there was another way? Sylar was probably just as hung up as Nathan about topping and dominance (letting him take anything even hinting at a superior role was likely to be disastrous for Peter), but that didn't rule out the opposite. It simply mandated it. And Peter … wasn't entirely unwilling to take it. (Particularly not in fantasy with his throbbing cock in his hand.) _'Just take what your body already wants. __**Take it**__ and you can have it.'_

Peter's hand on his dick moved faster. His breathing became strained as his peak came over him. The sensation and the thoughts blended together as the fantasy of being with Sylar lost coherence. It was a mess of images of fucking his ass, pushing him down and forcing him to submit, Sylar's flushed face, steaming and wet-from-the-shower body, the scent of him heavy in the bed they'd shared, eyes so luminous and dark and rich and expressive, lips questing hungrily for Peter's, Sylar's hands touching him with so much delicacy when they were capable of inflicting so much pain.

Peter came in a hot surge, gasping at the intensity of it. He almost never came that hard alone. Sometimes he couldn't even manage orgasm at all when by himself. He didn't want to think about why his subconscious found this to be such a turn-on. For once, the rest of his head was perfectly content to let it lie.

His hand dropped away from the bruise on his neck, which he'd squeezed and prodded on the way to his climax almost as hard as Sylar had bitten him to start with. He slumped back on the bed, panting and wiping the wet fingers of his other hand on the nearby shirt. He dabbed at himself half-heartedly, then lay quietly to enjoy the buzz. He was pretty sure he could sleep now.


	69. Temptation

**Title:** Temptation  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Words:<strong> 1200  
><strong>Rating:<strong> R  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> A halfway non-consensual kiss.  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter finds Sylar (nearly) irresistible.

* * *

><p>Peter woke with Sylar pillowed on his chest, tucked under his arm like a child. The long lashes and peaceful expression on the man's face reinforced the impression. He looked so innocent, unguarded, and needful of protection like this. Despite it being Sylar, Peter couldn't bear to disturb him. Sylar didn't know Peter was awake, so there was no requirement to move away. For a time at least, Peter knew he could bask in the cuddly warmth without repercussion. Pleased by that, he stroked Sylar's back slowly a few times before letting slumber reclaim him.<p>

When he woke again, Sylar was shifting like he was uncomfortable. Peter suspected his neck might be bothering him. It was a tough position to keep for very long. He slipped to the side, lifting his arm and letting his drowsing companion ease down to the mattress alone. Peter sat up on the edge of the bed, where he rubbed at his shoulder. It wasn't sore so much as stiff. He rolled it through its range of motion. Behind him, Sylar made a sleepy, half-protesting noise and fingers trailed over Peter's lower back.

Peter turned, hiking up one knee and facing a lovely sight. Disheveled bed-hair fell across part of Sylar's face. His expression was bereft at Peter's departure. Muscular shoulders were bared by the singlet the man had worn to bed. The rest of him was lost under the blanket. Sylar's hand pulled back a little to tease along the outer edge of Peter's nearer leg. Peter was in sweat pants and a short-sleeved t-shirt. Large, dark eyes partly screened by the hair peered up at him hopefully. He didn't ask Peter to come back to bed, but Peter didn't need the words to be spoken to hear the request.

He didn't want to – he was done sleeping and he suspected that what Sylar wanted him for had nothing to do with sleep, innocence, or protection. It was tempting all the same. He felt a yearning inside for the intimacy, the friendly contact, letting down his defenses and letting someone in. But it would be a false intimacy, or at least only a physical one, Peter thought. Their relationship might encompass sharing a bed and even comforting one another from nightmares, but a fully awake Sylar was often mean-spirited and unpredictable, not to mention his past. It was hard for Peter to hold that in his mind while looking at Sylar, though. At the moment, he looked incredible – somehow managing to look kind, vulnerable, and thoughtful all at once.

Peter reached down for Sylar's hand and touched across the long, straight bones of his index finger, then over the bump of knuckle to the veined tendons on the back of his hand. Sylar stilled, watching Peter's hand as it traced back and forth over the man's wrist, then traveled up his forearm. It was very hairy. Peter lingered there to straighten the wayward hairs. He felt Sylar breathe out softly, having held his breath from Peter's first touch. Peter raised his eyes and as Sylar's flicked up to meet them, uncertainty and need stamped on Sylar's features.

"You are _beautiful_," Peter murmured, heartfelt. He glanced up and down Sylar's body to indicate all of it. He meant nothing feminine about the word. He could have as easily described Sylar as magnificent, but that would have lost the sense of allure Peter felt for him, the desire. Sylar licked his lips and swallowed. Peter curled his fingers around to the softer, silky-smooth skin on the underside of Sylar's forearm and at this, Sylar breathed out the faintest moan.

Peter had to stop himself from climbing on top of the man. He wanted to so bad – to get back under the covers and bring forth more of those sounds of appreciation and pleasure. The yearning inside was a conflagration now, burning him up inside. He was stiffening in the loose sweat pants, which were still too clingy by far to Peter's current mind. _He killed my brother. This isn't right. Don't do this. He's just a pretty face. No!_

With an effort almost physical, Peter tore himself away and stood, breath coming harder than it should for such a small thing. He moved away, around the end of the bed, as Sylar winced and flopped over on his back, eyes shut in frustration. Peter stopped there, regarding Sylar with hungry eyes and an erection that wasn't going away. He felt like he was trembling inside. He still wanted to go back. Sylar's eyes opened to slits, then fully, looking back at him and taking in how obviously tempted Peter was, how close and how desperately he wanted what he shouldn't have.

Sylar whipped off the cover and stood in singlet and pajama pants, no less aroused than Peter was if the folds of the pants were any indication. He strode to him forcefully and whatever his intention was, he wasn't stopping to make sure Peter was on board with it. If Peter was teetering in his resolve, then Sylar was determined to unbalance him. "No!" Peter reached out to heel punch the oncoming man in the sternum, but Sylar expected it. He snatched the wrist and jerked it to the side before pressing himself into Peter, against him, their bodies flush and firm against one another.

_Oh God_. Peter's trembling wasn't purely internal anymore. Almost all of the same motion, Sylar kissed him, hard and full on the mouth, demanding what wasn't his. Some shred of self-control finally reasserted itself in Peter's mind at that. If Sylar had been just a bit more tentative, Peter might have been lost, but he was long since tired of being bossed around in all aspects of his life. Sylar didn't get that privilege. Instead of shoving away, he reached up with his free hand, slow and non-confrontational. Sylar let it pass, consumed in the kiss, rolling his eyes when Peter caressed his cheek and ignoring it as Peter moved his hand on to his ear. At that point, he grabbed, twisted, and yanked downward.

With a pained noise, Sylar released his wrist to flail at the unexpected pain. Peter grabbed his shoulder and shoved down in the same direction he was pulling on the man's ear. It was a pressure point and a good one. Sylar went to his knees and Peter let up on the twisting. Sylar's hand was on his now, not quite pulling him away for fear that Peter wouldn't let go his grip. Sylar's eyes went to Peter's triumphant face, then dropped to his groin where Peter was still rampant despite the violence. A leer spread over Sylar's features and he opened his mouth, licking the corner of it and looking up at Peter with brows raised slightly in question.

Peter huffed half a laugh at the offer to blow him. Now _that_ was something tempting, too, but in a different way. "Ha. No. Not today." He let go of Sylar's ear entirely and gave the man a light push backwards followed by Peter backing off.

Sylar swayed, leering grin still in place. "Someday," he said and Peter couldn't contradict him.


	70. Childish Things

**Title:** Childish Things  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar, Peter  
><strong>Words:<strong> 600  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None.  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> MBU doodle. Sylar needs comforting 

"I want to go to bed now," Sylar said. _I sound like a sulky child._ There was nothing for it though. He hurt too much inside to do anything other than keep his eyes down and wait tensely for Peter to acknowledge the end of the uncomfortable conversation.

"Okay," the other man said.

With a curt nod, Sylar went about his rote preparations for bed, where he waited impatiently for Peter to join him. It was early. He was grateful when Peter didn't insist on staying up and doing his own thing. Sylar's eyes tracked Peter's usual bedtime rituals until the man laid down on his back on the other side of the bed. Sylar scooted over to him immediately.

He put his forehead to the point of Peter's shoulder, his face against Peter's upper arm. He breathed out heavily in relief, like a child reunited with a beloved security blanket. Eyes shut now, he cupped his hand over the hollow of Peter's elbow, holding him. He felt Peter twitch – usually Sylar waited until Peter was sleepier before expanding his contact beyond the minimum. _Please don't pull away. Please_, he whined inside, but said nothing. Peter was a human being, not a blanket or a teddy bear and could do as he liked – not always choosing actions Sylar enjoyed. Sylar held perfectly still. Peter didn't move further.

Sylar's shoulders sagged finally and he started breathing again. He pulled his knees in so they rested against Peter's thigh. His eyes were wet. He didn't want to think about all the things they'd talked about, or rather that he'd been accused of (_reminded of_). He didn't want the guilt about how he should have made different choices. He didn't want any of it! None of the memories, muddled in his mind at the moment so he was confused about how and where he'd grown up, what his name was, or which crimes he was accountable for. Multiple lifetimes of wearing a mask and pathetically trying to win the approval of others flashed behind his eyes. He didn't like any of it – his whole life, none of it. He wished it would just go away, stop, cease to be. He didn't want it!

_I'm still being childish._

He didn't care how it looked. He only wanted this thing that he had now, which was more than he'd ever had before in any of his incarnations – a warm arm to hold and plaster his face to and hiccup against as breathing through his nose became difficult. Then Peter turned. For a moment, tears renewed as Sylar expected to be abandoned. Peter rolled and hugged him, wrapping him in his arms and pulling him close. Sylar made a tiny sound of surprised pleasure, huddling in. He felt too big and awkward and foolish, but if Peter thought any of that, he gave no indication of it. It was the acceptance he needed. He was here, having feelings, and Peter was entirely validating without saying a word. No questions were being asked, no answers demanded. _He said no conditions,_ Sylar mused, sniffing against Peter's chest now. He hadn't really believed Peter's promise to comfort him. The tears had stopped with the hug, the consolation of not losing his hero having left him oddly clear-headed. He supposed he no longer had a legitimate need of Peter's embrace, but it was too precious a thing to give up. Instead, he burrowed deeper, snaked his arms around Peter in turn, and stayed that way until he fell asleep.


	71. Practical Reasons

**Title:** Practical Reasons  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Words:<strong> 400  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None.  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sylar doesn't understand Peter's reading choices. Peter thinks there's a lot Sylar doesn't understand.

* * *

><p>Peter walked back to the desk in Sylar's apartment, picking up the book he'd been reading. He shut it without bothering to check the page and stuck it back on the nearby shelf. He turned back to the desk, reaching for the game on the top of the stack. It was Battleship. He remembered having won their last match. That was good – it was a winwin. If Sylar won, he'd be happy to have revenged himself, and if Peter won, he'd enjoy having the trend continue. He regarded Battleship as a coin-flip-game anyway as to who won. At least, it should be a coin-flip-game, but people like Sylar insisted on playing it methodically, which defeated the whole purpose. He turned to see if Sylar was interested in playing it again, methodical or no.

Sylar was staring at the book Peter had returned to the shelf. "Kant, A Critique of Practical Reason," he read the title out loud. He looked at Peter wonderingly. "Why were you reading that?"

Peter shrugged. He didn't want to get into deep philosophy about one's understanding of reality when deprived of sensory experience, because that would lead inevitably to a discussion of how Peter perceived their here-and-now. It was not the same understanding Sylar had.

Sylar was not to be deterred. His wonder went to suspicion and uncertainty. "Why were you reading that? That's a very heavy book," he added, which could mean the literal heft of the substantial tome, or more likely the intellectual rigor required to comprehend it.

Peter frowned. "It was just something I was reading, Sylar."

"But why? That's not you. That's nothing like you."

He would have been offended if Sylar knew jack shit about what he was talking about. It wasn't even the first or second time he'd read the damn thing, having had to write a term paper in college on it and discussed it at some length with many of his friends. He gave Sylar a good, long, hard stare, thinking about how Sylar must be using Nathan's memories to be so certain. "Nathan didn't know me. He knew _about_ me, and what he _expected_ me to be, and that was all he thought he needed to know. Don't make the same mistake." Peter gestured at the game in front of him. "Now put the book back, have a seat, and let's play Battleship."


	72. Favorite Arrangements

**Title:** Favorite Arrangements  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Words:<strong> 1,000  
><strong>Rating:<strong> R  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None.  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Fighting, fucking – not truly either, but they're certainly mucking around in a gray area.

* * *

><p>Peter struggled to stay focused on the piano while Sylar loomed directly over him. He could feel the man's presence as a heat against his back, prickling across his skin, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. When Sylar deliberately blew on his ear, though, Peter knew it was time to throw down. "That's it!" he snapped. Snarling, he got to his feet and clear of the bench. Sylar looked delighted. Peter swung his left fist at the man's smug face, trusting Sylar to make sure it didn't connect. It was only partly a feint, but as he'd expected, Sylar put his main attention into blocking it. Peter's solid kick to the shin went entirely unopposed.<p>

Sylar backed up an unsteady step before swinging a few punches of his own. Peter stayed well out of range now, circling right and sizing Sylar up as though he was considering rushing him. He was obvious enough about it that Sylar gave him a 'come and get it' gesture, so Peter lunged at him … and kicked him in the other shin instead of committing to the bull rush. Sylar made an inarticulate roar at that and cuffed him solidly across the head. Peter jerked back and down, getting hit on the side of the face and then had his shirt grabbed by Sylar's other hand. He wasn't sure what Sylar was planning with that, so he twisted away, the taut fabric slipping out of Sylar's grip before he could tighten it.

Peter got his balance. He should have probably been thinking of a strategy, but instead he was just responding. It turned out to be better that way. Provoked now, Sylar stepped forward and swung at his head with long arms that took a while to unwind. Mind empty and hands lightning quick, Peter grabbed the guy's wrist, side-stepped, and yanked him forward, following the path of momentum just like he'd been taught years ago. _Hey, that worked!_ Sylar fell forward flailing onto the couch. Peter came down with a knee to the back of one calf as Sylar was trying to get back up and slammed his right forearm across the back of Sylar's neck to force him back down. Sylar face-planted on the leather couch and couldn't draw breath for a half-second, long enough to get disoriented in the middle of a fight. Peter grabbed his left wrist with his free left hand, applying pressure with his right to keep Sylar's head down. Sylar thrashed – tried to kick him, roll, heave him off, and turn his head to breathe. They were all useful actions that made sense in context, but none of them stopped Peter from twisting Sylar's left arm around behind his back. That was important.

Peter wrenched the wrist upward and the fight was over. Sylar gasped and involuntarily cowered down away from the pressure. He was stuck. He couldn't twist away forward with the couch blocking him. A moment later, Peter felt him go limp. In response, he lowered the wrist a few inches. One of Peter's knees had ended up between Sylar's legs. He was on his knees behind him, but the sexual connotations of the position hadn't occurred to him until Sylar reached back with his free right hand to brush it up and down against the outside of Peter's thigh.

"Huh," Peter said. The gesture could be read as supplication or as defiance. Peter decided to take it as complimentary in either case. He let go of Sylar's left wrist, letting the arm fall and hoping there was no resumption of hostility. Sylar didn't do anything – he stayed right where he'd been put, his right hand moving up and down the front and now curving around the inside of Peter's thigh. It felt so good after the rush of the fighting that Peter felt light-headed. He put both hands on Sylar's shoulders. Relief, arousal, and satisfaction surged through him. He had Sylar right where he wanted him in a way. It was perfect. He rubbed lightly, feeling the fabric shift, skin flex and muscle firm underneath. It felt good. Sylar's hand made a fist in what he could grip of Peter's jeans. Peter breathed out a slow, deep breath. His head sagged. He could smell Sylar – his hair, his sweat, the back of his neck. Sylar was so close, so present, and so available.

Sylar tugged on his jeans, head turned so he could see Peter out of the corner of his eye. "You like this position?"

"Not my favorite." Peter's voice was strained. He backed away, getting his hands off of Sylar and Sylar's off of him. They were done. This was as far as he would go. But fuck it was tempting!

"What is?" Sylar got to his feet. "Your favorite?"

Peter looked him up and down, noticing and not lingering on the hard-on Sylar appeared to have. Peter would be surprised if he didn't have the same. It would be embarrassing if it wasn't becoming so much of a trend between them. "I like facing the person I'm with." Just like he was facing Sylar now. Peter bit his lip and turned away.

"That can be arranged," Sylar purred, reaching for him but only to touch at Peter's elbow, not to seize or hold.

"No, Sylar, it can't," Peter said, all the reasons why he couldn't do this bubbling up in his mind. "You killed my brother. I loved him, and you killed him. You took him away from me, _twice!_"

Sylar grimaced. "If I'd known you were so into threesomes, maybe I would have left him alive."


	73. Make It So

**Title:** Make It So  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar, Peter  
><strong>Words:<strong> 600  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None.  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter and Sylar argue over who steers the boat.

* * *

><p>"Hey, there's a rowboat!"<p>

Sylar lagged behind as Peter jumped down the rocks to where the boat was moored on the little bit of sand and muck at the edge of the river. By the time Sylar joined him, Peter had it untied and was pulling out the oars. He handed one to Sylar, who was standing on the last rock, reluctant to go further. He'd leave tracks and he might get his shoes dirty.

"Come on," Peter urged, as though this was the whole point of their stroll down the riverside. Peter had professed a desire for a change of scenery, which Sylar had interpreted as 'I'm bored'. With a put-upon sigh, he took the offered oar and gingerly climbed into the tiny boat, using the oar to keep his balance as he passed Peter and headed to the other end.

"Where are we going?" he said in a complaining tone as he nonetheless stuck the oar in the water and prodded at the silt.

"Downstream, across, I dunno," Peter said, grunting as he shoved the oar into the soft riverbank. They came free at last. The boat rocked as they sat, having the sense not to remain standing and thereby tip them both into the water. They ended up at the opposite ends of it with an empty seat between them. Peter leaned across it with his hand palm up. "Here, give me the oar."

Sylar looked at him steadily, making no motion to surrender the cedar stave. "You give me _your_ oar," he countered. The boat was too narrow for both of them to sit side by side. There would be only a single rower.

Peter pulled his hand back and gave a confused tilt of his head. "You're going to paddle us? What do you know about boats?"

"I know this one is too small to have a rudder, so whoever controls the oars controls our destiny," Sylar quirked a brow, amused by his own wordplay, "and our destination."

Peter looked from his oar to Sylar's, hands tightening restlessly across the smooth wood. "That's not how it works," he said after a pause long enough for nearly a hundred feet of shoreline to drift past.

"Oh?"

"Boats have captains."

Sylar cocked his head slowly, considering what Peter was working himself up to offering. It was a concession of sorts. Rather than beat around the bush, he asked directly, "And am I the captain of this boat?"

"You can be," Peter said with a false-looking shrug, pretending he didn't care.

"You'll go where I say we go?" Sylar wanted to be sure he knew what he was getting. People didn't let him in the driver's seat very often, if ever.

A smile flitted across Peter's face and he moved into the middle seat, fitting his oar to the eyelet like the matter was decided. "Yes." He waited for Sylar to give him the other. "That's the deal."

After letting Peter cool his jets for a few more moments to make it clear who was in charge, Sylar magnanimously handed him the other oar. "We'll go across then." Peter had wanted to see something new, after all.

Peter set up the oar, gripped both of them, and looked around to get his bearings. "Yes sir," he said quietly, but without sarcasm or disrespect, like it was Sylar's due. It was weird how that small thing ran through Sylar like electricity, making him sit straighter and his skin prickle. It was shaping up to be a good outing after all.


	74. Sacred Trust

**Title:** Sacred Trust  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Words:<strong> 300  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Brief violence.  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter tries to explain to Sylar how he sees things.

* * *

><p>"It's mystical," Peter said earnestly. "You are a custodian of everything Nathan was. He's a part of you and of who you are. No matter how much you insist he's dead, he lives on <em>through you<em>."

Sylar frowned, gritted his teeth, and said nothing.

Peter shook his head briefly at that reaction. Maybe the thing about Nathan was too much of a sore subject for Sylar because he hadn't chosen those memories himself. He tried a different angle. "It's like all those people whose abilities you took? You took their lives, they're over now, but some essence of who they are continues, in _you_. Their abilities came from who they were, just like yours did," he gestured solemnly to Sylar, "and mine." He touched his own chest. "It would be ..." he searched for the right word, looking back and forth at the ground for a moment, "a tragedy, if they were lost. It would make their deaths pointless. At least through you, they have some meaning. They have a legacy. You have a _duty_ to use their powers responsibly. It's the least you can do for them." He paused to assess how Sylar was taking this. The man's face looked strained, like he was holding something in. Peter made a dip of his head and raised his brows, both motions inviting Sylar to comment.

"Well," Sylar said after clearing his throat and managing a straight face. "I'll try to remember that sacred trust the next time I'm using telekinesis to masturbate while I'm shape-shifted into your niece."

Sylar was laughing both before and after Peter slugged him. Shaking with rage and disgust, Peter stalked off, intent on not talking to the heel for as long as possible. _I don't know why I even try with him!_


	75. No One Knows Better

**Title:** No One Knows Better  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Words:<strong> 300  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None.  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter hurts himself. Sylar shows concern as only a serial killer can.

* * *

><p>Peter hissed in pain, side-stepping clumsily away from the chair he'd accidentally bumped his nearly-healed, but still tender, broken hand against. "Ow. Fuck," he muttered and grimaced, cradling it as the ache went literally bone-deep, the back of his hand throbbing near the knuckle of the ring finger. The break was called a boxer's fracture and he'd gotten it with a particularly ill-timed punch to Sylar's skull some weeks ago. They were still a long way from being best buds, but Peter's noise had brought Sylar out of his seat. He captured Peter's hand now, quickly enough that Peter couldn't yank it away without endangering himself even worse. "Careful! Hey!"<p>

Sylar's formidable brows twitched, but he didn't let go. Deft fingers traced the bones and tendons in Peter's hand, examining him with the same intensity Sylar might have directed towards one of his clocks. "Peter," Sylar said condescendingly, "no one knows better how fragile people truly are than a killer."

Peter snorted, rejecting Sylar's self-identification. "And no one knows better how people need to be comforted than a nurse." He didn't need Sylar grabbing and pawing him – it was almost as upsetting as hitting his hand in the first place.

Sylar hesitated, looking up at him piercingly and meeting Peter's steady, irritated gaze. Sylar looked down at the hand he'd seized and was currently holding hostage. He petted it awkwardly. "There, there?" he said in mock hopefulness.

Peter huffed out a single laugh at that and managed to extract his hand. "Your bedside manner could use some work."

Sylar tilted his head and shrugged. "But your hand doesn't. Just be more careful."

Peter shot him a searching look, not for the first time wondering how and why Sylar considered it in his interest to keep Peter intact. He would have thought Sylar knew better, but the belief that Sylar was looking out for him, no matter how tenuous, meant Peter had started seriously pulling his punches. So maybe Sylar _did_ know better after all.


	76. Magic Hands

**Title:** Magic Hands  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Words:<strong> 600  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None.  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter and Sylar discuss the labels people apply to one another.

* * *

><p>"You're a monster just like I am."<p>

Peter had heard that sort of thing often enough from Sylar that it didn't get under his skin. He knew it was a statement about Sylar anyway, not about Peter at all. Maybe an education was in order. "I'm Peter Petrelli – paramedic, nurse, that skinny, shrimpy little kid from New York. Son of Arthur and Angela Petrelli." He hesitated. "As far as I know."

"What?" Sylar tensed under his hands. Peter was massaging him on an actual massage table. It was a weird thing to do, but everything in this place was weird. They'd been exploring little shops inside one of the larger office buildings. Finding the massage parlor, Sylar had stretched himself out and mockingly requested service. Peter had laughed, but went ahead and provided it. The shock on Sylar's face was worth it all by itself – and he wasn't going to discount the opportunity to get his hands all over a very handsome man (and the only human being he'd seen for months) without repercussion or retaliation.

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time a Petrelli found out they didn't have the family they thought they did. Not even the second or third. Who I'm related to changes a lot."

"Mrm," Sylar said, relaxing again as Peter moved up to his shoulders. Sylar was still wearing his shirt, but they'd taken off coats shortly after coming in the building.

"I don't have any reason to think I'm not their son. Nathan … I would assume he'd know if I wasn't."

Sylar shifted his head and made a flimsy, noncommittal wave of one hand. Peter took it as agreement that Nathan had no reason to suspect different.

Peter moved back down the man's spine, eliciting a faint groan of pleasure from Sylar. "I've never been called a monster. I've been called a lot of other things – a cheat, a fraud, drama queen, late … late-blooming, an accident, an extra, a dreamer …" He paused as he reached the top of Sylar's jeans. It was tempting to pull the shirt out of his way and do this skin-to-skin. He could see a little swirl of fine, dark hair against smooth, pale skin in the gap where the shirt had ridden up. "Sexy," he murmured, before dragging his mind back onto the subject of discussion, and pretending that was one of the labels he'd had. It was, but that wasn't why he'd said it. Leaving the shirt between them, he started working his way back up, using the heels of his hands for more pressure. Sylar's groan was not faint this time. "I've been called an underdog and a glory hound, a poodle and a pet – hell, I've been called a dog outright, but it wasn't true. I wanted more than that with her," he said wistfully of one of his college girlfriends. He expanded his range out to Sylar's deltoids. "I want you to think that I'm more than a monster."

Voice slurred with relaxation and pleasure, Sylar got out, "Right now, I think you're an angel."

Peter chuckled and stepped back, finished. "So is that all it takes to change your mind – a few minutes on a table with magic hands?"

Sylar lifted himself up on his elbows to regard Peter. Voice clearer, he said, "That's all it took for me to become a monster." He dipped his head to one side. "But it was a wall, not a table."


	77. Twisted

**Title:** Twisted  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Words:<strong> 600  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Violent sex, hate-sex  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> A fight which turns into sex.

* * *

><p>"You son of a bitch!" Peter's second blow cracked Sylar across the chin and for a moment, he thought he'd done some serious damage. He hesitated long enough for Sylar to take advantage, trying to hit Peter in the ribs and ending up slamming Peter's elbow instead. "Bastard!" Peter tried to swing again, but Sylar was too close now. A half step back so he could pummel the guy more only served to bring his heel up against the couch. Sylar bulled into him, tumbling them both onto it.<p>

"Don't- No!" Peter shoved, kicked, and tried to get one of his knees between him and Sylar as the other man climbed between his legs. He hadn't been fast enough, though. "Fuck," Peter said, before punching at Sylar's side because it was the easiest target to get at. Sylar grabbed his wrist; Peter jerked it away. Peter tried to roll them off the couch – being on the floor would at least put him on top and in a better position to bash the guy's face in. Sylar still had a foot on the floor and shoved back. Then Sylar came forward in a clench, putting his body against Peter's so as to rob Peter's blows of any effectiveness and better control him. Peter grabbed Sylar's shoulder, fingers gripping both fabric and flesh beneath. His other hand took the back of Sylar's head, twining through hair and making a fist.

Peter arched against that lean, firm body that pressed against his. Lust sizzled through him. He was hard in an instant – Sylar, no more than a second after him. The violence had his blood pounding. His skin felt electrified by the adrenalin. His breath was rasping in his throat as Sylar mouthed the side of his neck. Peter's hand, in his hair, held the man to him as Peter's hips strained against him.

He didn't think this was the way it was supposed to be. One wasn't supposed to hit one's lovers. You weren't supposed to curse them and call them names and want to grind their face into paste against the floor. Peter's body flushed with even more excitement. All he could think of was how twisted this was, how much he hated Sylar, and how fucking hot it felt. He moaned.

Sylar, in answer, put his hand between Peter's legs and seized his groin through his jeans with a dangerously tight grip. Peter's breath caught. Sylar sucked at his neck and firmly manipulated him. Peter's moan turned to a begging whimper, his fist tightening in Sylar's hair and the fingers of his other hand digging into his shoulder. He came fast, and hard, and shuddering, with Sylar whispering sweet nothings in his ear about who he belonged to and what a filthy little pervert he was. Peter agreed, for the most part, though he didn't have the breath or the inclination to say it out loud.

Before the aftershocks faded, Sylar propped himself up to rub himself against Peter's crotch, pumping away in a clothed simulation of sex. Not that this wasn't sex. Peter wouldn't deny what they were doing even if they hadn't gone so far as getting naked yet. He caressed Sylar's sides and hooked his feet around the back of the other man's knees, giving him gentleness and leverage. Peter tried not to wince at the blood that dripped from Sylar's mouth as the man panted over him, a reminder of violence Peter _would_ deny if he could. Sylar sank to be enveloped by welcoming arms after his peak. For a while now, they would just lie together before things went back to the way they were. And that, Peter thought, had to be the most twisted part of all.


	78. Imagine

**Title:** Imagine  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar, Peter  
><strong>Words:<strong> 500  
><strong>Rating:<strong> G  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Filk  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter rephrases a song.

* * *

><p>Sylar opened the back door of the apartment building, taking care as he always did that the door slid shut behind him with barely a whisper of sound. Then he paused to listen. Peter was playing piano in the rec room. That let him know where the man was and that Peter was unlikely to hear him approach. Even so, his tread was quiet as he walked to the open door, stopping short of it to listen again. It had been over a week since they'd spoken to one another – some degree of caution seemed wise no matter what.<p>

The song was easily recognizable – very famous, one of John Lennon's. Just as Sylar was getting to appreciate it, Peter stopped playing and started muttering to himself. He had been singing, too, which was also weird. Peter didn't have the best voice – he was no professional singer and never would be – but it was good enough in a world without competition. He resumed. Sylar started to walk inside when he caught the word Company where country was supposed to go. That stopped him. Peter stopped too, but when Sylar glanced in, it wasn't because Peter suspected him. He was humming to himself and scribbling something on a page of sheet music. He played a little more, singing to himself low and mostly inarticulate, then stopped again.

Sylar leaned against the wall, unseen, and wondered. It seemed that Peter was finished, though, because he ran through the entire song start to finish, singing it loudly enough that Sylar was finally able to catch all the words. The changes were minor, but very significant.

_Imagine there's no heaven__  
><em>_It's easy if you try__  
><em>_No hell below us__  
><em>_Above us only sky__  
><em>_Imagine both the people__  
><em>_Living for today..._

_Imagine there's no Comp'ny__  
><em>_It isn't hard to do__  
><em>_Nothing to kill or die for__  
><em>_And no prophecy too__  
><em>_Imagine both the people__  
><em>_Living life in peace..._

_You may say I'm a dreamer__  
>I may be<em>_ the only one__  
><em>_I hope someday you'll join me__  
><em>_And the world will be as one_

_Imagine no abilities__  
><em>_I wonder if you can__  
><em>_No need for greed or Hunger__  
><em>_A brotherhood of man__  
><em>_Imagine both the people__  
><em>_Sharing all the world..._

_You may say I'm a dreamer__  
>I may be<em>_ the only one__  
><em>_I hope someday you'll join me__  
><em>_And the world will live as one_

_So,_ Sylar thought, _this is what Peter does when I leave him to his own devices for too long._ It was sweet. And kind of cute. He had a feeling Peter had done this solely for his own entertainment. Their relationship was nowhere near the 'living as one' mentioned in the song, but it was warming that Peter could think along those lines with everything that had happened between them. Peter had chosen _not _to alter that line, after all, and that meant something. Sylar decided against creeping up on Peter and scaring the crap out of him. Instead, he walked back to the back door, opened it, and let it close noisily before tromping back to the rec room with a heavy step. Peter would talk to him again – he was sure of it.


	79. The Arena

**Title:** The Arena  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Words:<strong> 500  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Dream/nightmare  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter has a bad dream. Sylar wakes him.

* * *

><p>He stood on hot, pale sand within a brick arena. Across from him was Sylar. Both were clad as gladiators in leather and bronze. Each was holding a short, sharp bronze sword. Peter blinked at the person obviously intended to be his opponent. Sylar looked grim and resolute.<p>

"No!" Peter objected, letting his sword hang to his side. "I won't do it! I came here to get his help, not to kill him!" He spun, searching the empty brick and stone bleachers to find Matt Parkman outfitted as Caesar, toga and golden laurel included. "That's not what I came here for," Peter complained.

"It's what _I'm_ here for," Matt said reasonably. "I'm tired of supporting you inside his head. It's not working. Just give up and put an end to it."

"No!" With Peter's refusal to fight, Sylar sat down heavily on the sand. He put his face into his hands and started crying about all the other people he'd had to kill in here. Peter looked at him, torn inside. It seemed senseless to blame a gladiator for murder.

Matt shrugged and put his out his thumb, downturned in a gesture of finality. "Then I will."

Heretofore unseen entrances to the arena opened to release lions into the fighting pit with them. Sylar remained sitting on the sand, helpless in his grief. Peter ran, interposing himself between Sylar and the lions, somehow snatching up Sylar's sword along the way. A weapon in each hand, he stood, looking between the blades and the circling, wary lions. "I don't know how to use swords," he said. His voice sounded strange to his ears.

"Peter?" Sylar called from behind him, also sounding odd.

But Peter couldn't spare the time to look. He slashed at one of the lions which had rushed him, barely evading the razor-like claws. He had trouble telling how big the lions were. At one moment they seemed like monsters; the next unruly house cats._ It must be the fear_, he told himself. He tried to slice at the nearest cat-lion, waving his sword in a slow, wide arc that never even got near the cat. That was when he realized someone had thrown a net over him. They must be trying to get him out of the way, so he couldn't protect Sylar! He struggled with it, but it was everywhere he reached. He could barely breathe. "No!"

"Peter!"

Sylar was grabbing his forearm, maybe trying to help with the net? Peter remembered that he'd taken Sylar's sword and left him defenseless. Maybe he could cut his way free … Then he was on his back, in bed. Peter fought with the tangled sheet, taking out his frustrations on it and finally flinging it off the end of the bed. Panting, he stared after it with a dazed, numb expression before turning to embrace Sylar without warning or preamble. "I'm glad you're okay," he murmured.

After a moment of tension at being seized so abruptly, Sylar softened. "Who were you fighting?"

"Matt," Peter said, processing that it had all been a dream. "And lions." He supposed there was no reason to be awake anymore. Exhaustion tugged at his consciousness.

"Interesting combination."

"Not as interesting as you in a gladiator outfit," Peter mumbled, letting sleep claim him once more.


	80. Brainstorming

**Title:** Brainstorming  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Words:<strong> 1,600  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter asks Sylar to be a sounding board for Peter's various crazy ideas about how to save Nathan.

* * *

><p>"Just hear me out," Peter asked. "I could go back in time and get Jeremy's ability. Then-" He made an exasperated noise. "But then I'd have <em>his<em> power, not time traveling. I couldn't get back." Sylar, listening, raised his brows slightly in a 'really?' expression. Peter ignored him, although he had the nagging feeling he was missing something there. "Okay, wait – instead of me getting time traveling, I get Hiro … but Hiro has a brain tumor." He paused to wonder how that had turned out and if it had any effect on his ability. Peter had been able to borrow his power, after all, so that argued it was intact. From Sylar's surprised look, he gathered Sylar hadn't been up to date on Hiro's health. He wondered if Sylar knew anything about brain tumors and abilities … but that was beside the point. "Okay, well, it doesn't matter who. Maybe I can find someone else with time traveling. This is just a thought experiment, after all."

"Gedankenexperiment," Sylar said.

Peter blinked at the unintelligible word. It seemed random. "Okay." When Sylar only nodded, Peter blew it off and went on, "I find someone with time traveling and we both go back to meet Jeremy. You know, if that meeting wasn't friendly, then it might explain a lot about how upset Jeremy was with Noah and I. And that whole shotgun thing. Of course, the stuff about his parents explained that, too." Peter's nose wrinkled in memory. "Anyway, I get Jeremy's ability somehow, then we time travel back to the plane, right after Noah and I – that's past-me – parachute out of it. Then I'd try to heal him – Nathan. I hope he hasn't been dead too long." He waited a moment to ponder that. "But if I _could_ heal him, then … Oh. Then we'd crash. That's no good." He frowned. "No, wait! Whoever teleported me in there could teleport us out again! That's right." Sylar gave him another long-suffering look. Peter ignored him again. "And if it didn't work, then we could go back earlier … like right after you'd killed Nathan. You didn't stay in the hotel room for long. There had to be a while between you leaving and whoever found him, finding him. He definitely wouldn't be dead too long then!" Peter thought through the process – teleporting in, healing Nathan's fatal wound before it even bled out, then the three of them teleporting out like they'd never even been there. "What do you think?" he asked Sylar hopefully.

Sylar blinked at him slowly. "I can't believe that you ever beat me at anything."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Sylar shook his head. "It means the next time I tell myself I'm better than other people, I'm going to think of this conversation and remember that this is the tactical genius who thwarted me twice."

Peter frowned heavily at him. "Well, what _should_ I do?"

"For starters, why not go back to when Nathan was alive, and skip the crap about getting Jeremy's healing ability? Or are you too obsessed with saving the day to see that as a possibility?"

"Oh!" Peter stared off into the distance, thinking that through. "Yeah! But wait … what would that do to you?" He gave Sylar a puzzled look. "I'd still inject you, so you'd be caught ..."

"What would have happened to me if you healed Nathan in the hotel room and teleported out with him?"

Peter's face fell. One of the rules of Sylar listening to him talk through his ideas about how to save Nathan included not entertaining options that involved Sylar's death or loss of identity. "Oh. I didn't think of that."

"Obviously," Sylar said dryly. "So obviously, in fact, that I believe you. But if you teleported into the elevator or the end of the hall, you could intercept yourself and dearest Nathan, and you could explain things to both. Nathan would not have to die and your past self would not have to carry through with the injection."

"Oh." Peter nodded. He supposed that worked. "Okay, but what about you? You were in the hotel room with Claire."

Sylar sighed. "Despite your feelings about the matter, I _can_ be reasoned with. That was … not the best time to attempt it, but I can hardly think of a worse method of dealing with me than a head-on assault. I've been ambushed by better teams than you two and won."

"But then you'd be facing not just past-me and Nathan, but me and the time-traveler, too," Peter pointed out, thinking the match might go very differently.

Sylar stared at him for several seconds, then started laughing. "That's your answer? Just keep sending back more reinforcements from the future?"

"Well, okay, that's probably not going to work." And, also, it was against the rules of their current conversation. "Yeah, we could talk to you," he conceded. "But what happens if _that _works? I mean, it would change the whole future!"

"So?"

"You can't do that! I mean, I can't do that."

"Why not? Hiro does it all the time."

"No, he doesn't."

"He came back in time once to prevent me from taking the ability of his girlfriend. And he managed to talk me into curing her aneurism at the same time. See? I _can_ be reasoned with!"

"Okay, fine, yeah." Peter's lips pursed. "But what happened to reality?"

"Nothing. I didn't have her ability any more."

"But you'd had it before?"

"In the past of the Hiro who came back to prevent me from taking it, clearly."

Now Peter was blinking, trying to follow that. "Okay. I guess that sort of makes sense. I mean, it was a Hiro from the future who came back and told me to save the cheerleader, so I guess in _that _Hiro's past, I didn't do it." He frowned. "Doesn't that mean there's a whole bunch of different realities?"

"No."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I know how time works."

Peter frowned even more mightily at Sylar. "I don't get it."

"And if your previous mental gymnastics were any indication of your intellectual ability, you will continue to not 'get it' even if I explain it. So I'm not going to," Sylar said in a superior tone.

"People who can't explain things don't understand them themselves," Peter said in a similar tone.

"I never said I couldn't explain it," Sylar said testily. "I said you wouldn't _understand_ it."

"I'm trying to solve my problems here, Sylar!" he snapped. "That's better than just sitting around for three years stewing over them!" He gestured sharply at the world around them, the world Sylar had moped in for the relative time span of years, doing nothing to better himself or his situation as far as Peter could tell. Sylar's face froze and he leaned back. Peter knew he'd gone too far. He shut his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and said, "I'm sorry. You insulted me. I got hot. I insulted back. It was low. I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

After several beats, Sylar allowed, "You apologize well."

Peter noted the lack of acceptance of said apology, but he'd gotten the impression Sylar didn't understand how apologies worked. Or maybe he would simply never forgive anyone for anything – that seemed like a really lousy way to live. "I've had more practice than I wanted."

Sylar swallowed, nodded, and after an awkward pause, said, "Go on with your brainstorming. I'll listen. If nothing else, I want to hear what I need to protect myself against."

After a beat, Peter said, "So you're saying I wouldn't change time … well, I _would _change time, but you're saying I would just … I don't know. Would it work?"

"Yes, maybe. Assuming past-me could be talked down from my plan, which might take more persuasion than you have." He shrugged at Peter's darkening look. "I'm trying to be realistic. I didn't get to the point I was at then without being desperate and desperately determined. You would also have to succeed in getting your past self and Nathan to stand down, which might be just as difficult, especially with Claire there goading you on."

Peter rolled his eyes – not at Claire's role, but at how accurate Sylar was that the whole thing would be impossibly difficult, now that he considered the personalities involved. "Even if I could get there, to the right moment, I still couldn't stop it. I wouldn't listen to me." He shook his head. "I've tried that before and I didn't listen then, either."

Sylar gave him a puzzled look.

Peter shrugged it off. "You know who you would listen to? It's the same person that if I walked up with them next to me, working with me, then past-me and Nathan both would shut up and listen."

"Who's that?"

"You."

"Me?"

"You know about time. You can get Hiro's ability and cure his brain tumor, because you'd have to be in his brain to do it. And then you could take me back to Jeremy's place. I'd get his ability and we'd come right back to where Hiro was and I'd heal him." Sylar's mouth had fallen open slightly. "We'd go back to the Stanton Hotel. You'd show Nathan and past-me that you could be trusted. And _you_ – you'd be the one who understood what Sylar in that room was going through, and what you'd need to say to get through to him. That would do it."

Sylar shut his mouth, an unexpected and newfound respect on his face.


	81. Insatiable

**Title:** Insatiable  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Words: <strong>200  
><strong>Rating:<strong> R  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter and Sylar share a post-coital moment of fluff.

* * *

><p>"Come back here," Peter said, reaching out and snagging Sylar's wrist. He pulled the other man back into bed with him. "I'm not done with you yet." Peter ran his hand from Sylar's bare hip, across his waist, and up his equally bare chest, openly admiring the territory.<p>

"You Petrellis are so greedy," Sylar laughed, settling himself next to Peter. "Never getting enough."

Peter dipped his head, kissing and then licking a hairy pectoral. "Hungry."

"Needy," Sylar insulted, softening it by petting Peter's hair and combing his fingers through the tousled mop.

"You taste so good." Peter dragged his teeth along Sylar's skin.

Sylar arched, his hand making a fist. "Mmm. Do I?"

"Mm-hmm," Peter crooned agreement, face buried against the other man as he nibbled at a nipple.

"You're insatiable."

Peter lay off Sylar's chest and moved up to regard his face. "That's not true." He pretended to give Sylar a kiss, ending up brushing his lips teasingly with his own. "_You_ satisfy me just fine."

Sylar hooked his hand around the back of Peter's head and kissed him deeply.


	82. Mistaken Identity

**Title:** Mistaken Identity  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Words: <strong>350  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter questions basic reality.

* * *

><p>"Hey," Peter said, putting his book down. "Do you think it's possible – and just hear me out here," (he'd been saying that rather a lot recently), "but is it possible that you're Nathan and that really was Sylar we burned at Coyote Sands?"<p>

Sylar frowned at him. "How?" was all he said.

"Well, let's say they gave all of Sylar's powers to Nathan. And then a few weeks later, it got to be too much for Nathan, and realized he had other abilities, decided he was Sylar, and had an identity breakdown."

Sylar gazed steadily at Peter for a while. "You Petrellis really like the idea of fucking around with people's identities, don't you?"

"No, it's not that," Peter insisted. "It's that with abilities, anything is possible. I didn't think Nathan was you, so how would I know if you were Nathan?"

"Matt Parkman is a telepath. He would know."

"Can he be trusted?"

Sylar blinked.

"Can my mother? Or Noah?"

Carefully, Sylar said, "One would think they would have said something when their precious 'Nathan' began insisting Nathan was dead and calling himself Sylar."

Peter nodded. "Yeah, well, I didn't say this was serious. I was just thinking about it." He picked his book up again.

Sylar watched him for a moment, head slowly tilting. "How do you know Nathan ever existed at all – as long as we're posing hypotheticals?"

Peter raised his head. "You mean, like he was an invisible-friend-big-brother or something like that?"

"Yes."

Peter's brows pulled together as he thought it over. It seemed ludicrous – all the layered details, all the times people had referred to Nathan, he'd been on the news, ran for Congress – to think of all those as fictive broke his sense of reality. "I can't buy it. Who caught me when I jumped off that building?"

"Maybe you knew how to fly all along."

Peter smiled a little and found his page in the book. "That would be cool," he agreed. _But I'd rather have had Nathan in my life._


	83. On Being Petrelli

**Title:** On Being Petrelli  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Words: <strong>250  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sylar questions Peter's feelings about identity.

* * *

><p>"It happened to you, too," Sylar said. "You aren't bothered by that." It was almost a question. More, he was daring Peter to deny it.<p>

"Losing my memories?"

"Yes."

"No, losing the memories wasn't what bothered me. Not the same way it did you. What upset me was being stuck in that cargo container for so long and _that _is what's more similar between us. We were both abandoned, Sylar. Cast aside and gotten rid of. For you, it was taking your identity. For me, it was sending me off where I'd be out of the way forever. No one wanted me. That hurt."

"Rejection."

Peter nodded. "Not the memory loss itself. I was … happy, not knowing. I was curious of course, but I had a little bit there after Ricky put my identity in my hands that I didn't look. I thought about maybe never looking and leaving it all alone, but there were things going on – my abilities, the whole thing about me being in Ireland where I didn't have any background – I thought I needed to know, that it would be safer for the people I was with if I knew."

"You enjoyed being someone else."

Peter smiled faintly. "Yeah. For a little while, there, I wasn't a Petrelli." His smile deepened. "Oh man, is that why you're so angry? That they went and made you a Petrelli of all things? Damn. They could have made you an Anderson or a Jackson or a Hooper – anything but a Petrelli."

"Very funny," Sylar said drily.


	84. Escapement

**Title:** Escapement  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar, Peter  
><strong>Words:<strong> 1,750  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sylar tries to use the only ability that was ever really his on Peter.

* * *

><p><strong>Escapement:<strong> _One of the most important parts of any watch, the escapement provides impulses that maintain the oscillation of the balance wheel ensuring the rate that the escapement will allow the hands to revolve._

* * *

><p>With an intent, focused expression, Sylar watched Peter. Peter was doing nothing particularly interesting at the moment (Sylar thought the man was sketching the piano for some stupid reason) and that was the problem – Peter did not do what Sylar wanted him to. Sylar did not want immediate, constant obedience, but he wasn't getting the reactions he wanted. There was no connection between them and life had pretty definitely narrowed down his choices for a possible connection. Peter was it. There was no backup, no second choice, no alternate. It was Peter or no one, forever, and Sylar had had three long years to deal with that other option. He did not want an eternity of it. That meant he needed to get Peter to play ball with him.<p>

Somehow.

He'd tried all the basic things – explaining that Peter had no other choice, withdrawing his own presence and trying to wait Peter out, making offers of things he knew Peter had to be in need of – but Peter was uninterested or even outright hostile_. I'm missing something. Or I'm approaching it wrong. I'm trying to bargain with him and he doesn't want to deal. What if bargaining isn't right?_ For a moment, his mind floundered as it struggled to find a decent option. Extortion, threats, deceit, and blackmail were considered and discarded. _Those … aren't right either. I don't want that. They aren't reliable and it wouldn't last. It wouldn't be real._ He dropped his eyes slightly, so lost in thought that it took a moment for him to realize he was staring at Peter's watch, the one that didn't work and yet Peter kept stubbornly wearing it as if to taunt Sylar with its silence.

_A watch. I'm good at fixing watches. And figuring things out. Why can't I figure this out? I could imagine him as a watch._ His eyes rose to Peter's profile as the man continued to ignore him in favor of drawing the inanimate objects he preferred to focus his attention on. _He's a watch that won't give me the time of day. So how do I fix that? Well … what's wrong with him? The battery is still charged, obviously, but … he's not working right. _Sylar tilted his head, realizing there _was_ something wrong and different about Peter, something off-kilter that prevented him from functioning as he should, as even Peter wanted to function. He wasn't quite 'right' with the world.

He sorted through Nathan's memories, looking for an easy answer. _But there isn't one. Nathan doesn't know. Looking at Nathan is like looking at one Rolex trying to find out what's wrong with another. They're both Rolexes and have a lot in common, but the only way I'll figure it out is to look at the one that's not performing. _His mind toyed with the analogy of Petrellis as Rolexes_. It's a good brand – a little over-hyped and over-priced, but there's a lot of good craftsmanship in them. They're tough and reliable and the genuine articles are works of art. Not as unique as a Sylar, but their quality is more easily recognized by the public._

_There's not a problem with the casing, _he thought with a momentary lascivious glance up and down Peter's body._ And while I'm sure he's in need of some routine maintenance and … lubrication …_ Sylar licked his lips briefly_, I think the problem is something deeper. It could be something twisted or warped. He's certainly seen some rough use. If I could open him up and see, maybe it's a part I could fix – press it back into shape, make adjustments. He's made it this far, to me, so his basic functioning is intact. It's just his … responses are off. He's not_, he looked at the stopped watch_, living for the moment as it is now. He's living in the past, or maybe the future, what with how much he seems to approve of that future version of me he ran into. He needs to deal with me, here, now – not some future me with a kid!_

"What's important to you?" Sylar asked directly, as the only useful way to get inside of Peter's head was metaphorical.

Peter gave him a moment of attention immediately, then looked back at his paper to finish something. He looked up after. "I've told you that – saving Emma and everyone else at the carnival."

"Her specifically?"

Peter shook his head. "No, not her specifically. She's just … She's the only one I know the name of."

_There's some evasion there, but it's not my point._ "So it's the … saving people part of it?"

Peter put down his pencil. "I want to save people, yes," he agreed warily.

Sylar didn't see the attraction, even though he'd done it himself. People were messy and complicated and untrustworthy. Each one you saved was a liability. He didn't want people to start expecting mercy (or impotence). But this wasn't about him. "You _like_ to save people." Peter didn't answer. Sylar thought it through. _You want to be _allowed_ to save people. That's what's important – getting people to admit they need you, getting them to surrender their life into your hands, so you can save them and get all the glory._ Sylar smiled slightly. _You're such a Petrelli, Peter. No wonder you go searching after people so messed up that they turn to you. No wonder you're not interested in me. I'm not giving you those signals that you need so badly._ "You want to be their hero."

Peter frowned deeply. "I want to help them."

Sylar tilted his head slightly in a nod of ambiguous agreement. _There's not much difference. Wait – is there_? "You want to be special," he countered, exploring the nuance.

Peter set aside his sketch pad and pencil, turning to face Sylar. "No. It's not about _me_. It's about _them_. I want to help people. I want to make them happy."

_Happy? I can think of a few ways you could make me happy._ "You want to … satisfy them?"

Sylar meant that just as lewdly as it sounded, mostly as a joke, and in reference to himself as a possible recipient of such satisfaction. He didn't expect Peter to take it the way he did. "I … Yeah, I guess so. But ..." Peter sounded thrown and unsettled. "I tried that. It's not really what people want."

Sylar carefully stilled his face so it wouldn't show his surprise at what Peter was implying. _What? What is he saying? Did he fuck all those people he was with in the past just to make them happy? Seriously? It wasn't about him, Peter? Well, I guess it was, actually, but it wasn't about Peter wanting to get off – at least not directly. _The possibility of this being true was boggling, and made so much more sense in light of Peter's character than him as some kind of determined Lothario. _He's like a male nymphomaniac then, but only getting off on the idea of getting someone else off. You tried satisfying them that way, but it didn't scratch your itch. Because it never lasted. They never stayed. They didn't acknowledge it. They thought you were just getting off on it the same as I thought. _"But when you offer to save their life, they can't … reject you." _All that paramedic stuff – and the dying old people – it's about finding people who can't turn him away. _It was sad, really. Sylar felt very strange for having mocked it, but at the same time, it was so … weak. _And needy. And vulnerable. It's a vulnerability. I can use that. I can acknowledge him and the sacrifice he wants to be seen to be making._

Peter was eying him with disturbing intensity now.

_I __**should**__ be able to use it, at least. I don't like how he's looking at me – he knows I know how to reach him._ "I won't reject you, Peter," he said softly.

Peter stood, threatening in his posture and body language as he moved immediately to loom over Sylar. _Oh yes, that hit a button_. Sylar looked up at him innocently. He didn't want a fight. Peter though, seemed to want nothing other. He snarled, "You said I didn't have anything you wanted!"

It took Sylar a few seconds to place what Peter was talking about – after Arthur's death, Sylar had left Peter alive and explained it away with a disparaging comment._ That was a long time ago and a lot of very different conditions. But he's still resentful about it – because I turned him away. It fits. That's the piece of the mechanism that's out of place_. "Nothing I was willing to kill you for," Sylar said equally softly as before. He leaned forward slightly, trying to will Peter to calm down and let it happen.

Peter snorted and reached out to shove Sylar's shoulder in a transparent attempt to start a fight. _I'm not going to help you out of this, Peter. _Sylar let the motion rock him and gave no other reaction to it. Agitated, Peter stomped away several paces before saying, "I never said I wanted you."

"You don't have to," Sylar answered. _You came here for me, you nitwit. Of course you want me. You want things from me; I want things from you. We can work this out so we both get what we want. I know how to fix things between us. Let me do what I'm good at._

Peter glared death at him, then stalked out. If steam could have been shooting from his ears like in the cartoons, it would have. _Oh, did that ever wind him up. _Sylar leaned back with a pleased smile on his lips despite Peter fleeing the scene. _So much tension. He__ wants me. I can do this_. Sylar's mind began running through ways of showing Peter he was approved of and legitimate, making connections with how Peter had lived in Nathan's shadow and was obviously craving the light. _I can fix him. And then our time will finally come._


	85. Corny Bits

**Title:** Three Corny Drabbles  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Words:<strong> 300  
><strong>Rating:<strong> R  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Exactly what the title says.

* * *

><p>His arm aching from all the throwing and catching he'd done, Peter flopped down on the curb next to Sylar, watching as the man deftly rotated two baseballs with the long, slender fingers of one hand. Around and around they went. Sylar frowned at them, saying, "For some reason, I thought playing with your balls would be more fun." He was so deadpan it was funny.<p>

Peter smiled and gave him a playful nudge on the shoulder, causing Sylar to catch one ball with each hand as he lost balance and dropped them. "Come on, then. Let's go find out."

* * *

><p>"Do you know why I slept with half of New York?" Peter asked, his fingers slowly sliding across Sylar's sweat-slicked shoulders as they lay next to one another, post-coital. He hadn't really had so many partners, but Sylar seemed unhappy with the number in any case. The sex they had had with one another had been everything Peter had hoped for and more.<p>

"Mm," Sylar rumbled. "Why would that be?"

Peter shifted, folding his hands on Sylar's hairy chest and resting his chin atop them. Drunk on endorphins, he gazed at his new lover. "Because I hadn't found you yet."

* * *

><p>The best way Sylar could describe it was someone making love to his hand. Peter kissed fingertips, sucked at sensitive digits, and rubbed his face against Sylar's palm. The side of his nose slid up the heel of Sylar's hand to his watchstrap, where Peter unexpectedly swiped his tongue across the watchface. Sylar jumped. Peter looked up deviously. "I don't think that's a Sylar at all."<p>

"What?" Sylar sputtered indignantly at Peter doubting the article's provenance.

"It took a licking and kept on ticking." Peter pressed the back of Sylar's hand to his cheek lovingly. "It's gotta be a Timex."


	86. Hot and Cold

**Title:** Hot and Cold  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Words:<strong> 550  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Frustration  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter frustrates himself.

* * *

><p><em>Warmth.<em> Peter woke up with his face pressed to the middle of Sylar's back, fuzzy cotton t-shirt between them. _Ugh. What am I doing? _His eyes opened. He pulled his face back an inch or two, working out where he was, in bed with Sylar as a balm to the other man's phobias about being alone. It felt so good to be here, huddled under the comfy blankets, with his bed partner so close_. I want to fuck him so bad_, came to Peter's mind unbidden. _We might as well go ahead. We're sleeping together anyway_. He let his forehead settle against Sylar's back again with a noisy sigh of frustration. _That's not going to happen. It's not. Period. He has good reason to be afraid and traumatized and need someone in bed with him. I do __**not **__have good reason to be fucking the guy who killed my brother. Or even to be lingering here now that I'm awake. I should get up and go take a cold shower._ Instead, he inhaled deeply of their mingled scents. The air between them, trapped under the blankets, was positively saturated. He wanted to luxuriate in it. He wanted to do more than that. He wanted to cup his body to Sylar's, snake his arms around the man's torso, nuzzle his back and stroke his chest until Sylar woke, then see if he could sweet talk him into sex. It wouldn't be difficult. Sylar had made it clear the offer was on the table. Just the fantasy of taking him up on it had Peter hard_. No. No, no, no!_

Peter rolled away, flipping the covers off of himself with annoyance and a barely suppressed growl. He stalked to the bathroom, erection tenting his boxers. He looked straight ahead, not checking to see if Sylar was awake because he didn't want to risk the eye contact. He didn't want to know if Sylar saw him parading by, arousal perfectly evident in the morning light. But he shut the bathroom door quietly just in case Sylar was still asleep, trying to convince himself that his walk of shame had gone unnoticed.

He stripped quickly and got in the shower, only to find that his raging hard-on was rapidly fading. After all, the object of his desire was out there in bed, not in here in the shower. Peter's angry growl was not restrained this time. He made one more attempt, stroking himself determinedly, but the irritation at himself for being less excited than he had been in bed, now that he could actually jerk off, just made him lose his erection even faster in a self-reinforcing downward spiral. With a snarl, he left off and slammed the heel of his hand into the wall. The tile cracked under his palm, leaving an obvious mark of his frustration. _Fuck! I don't know how to replace tile. Cut it the fuck out, Peter. He'll make you fix that. (Maybe he won't notice?) Fat chance of that. He'll notice. I'll have to explain. (Maybe I slipped?) I'm not going to lie. (So I'll tell him he's irresistibly hot? That sounds like a fun conversation.) God-dammit!_ Thoroughly disgruntled, he took the cold shower he thought he deserved, or at least needed.


	87. Give Me An Inch

Three connected stories.

**Title:** Give Me An Inch  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Words:<strong> 500  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter gives Sylar a little coaching on how to get him in the mood.

"Look down!" Peter said in desperation. This had gone so far. He couldn't take it anymore, yet even with direct and clear orders, Sylar still stared at him from inches away. But a tiny furrow appeared in the man's brow, so Peter clarified, "Look away! I don't care, just give me an inch here!"

Sylar's eyes made a flicker – half a blink – and then to Peter's surprise, he drew in a breath and dutifully looked down, eyes focused on Peter's upper chest.

Peter stood very still, feeling stupid and angry and exasperated all at once. Seconds passed. Sylar wasn't moving either, not even his eyes, which were fixed on the second button of Peter's flannel shirt. Peter shut his own eyes for a moment, then opened them and relaxed. That was possible now – shutting his eyes, taking a moment, and relaxing. They were things he couldn't do while Sylar was devouring him with his dominating gaze. Peter was in the spotlight then, he was 'on', and there were things he couldn't deal with in that state.

Now, though, he could. He touched Sylar's shoulder, lightly, stroking the outside of it, then the top. Softly, he said, "You don't have to do it all the time. It's just a little thing. Sometimes. It makes me think you trust me enough to take your eyes off me for a moment-" He hadn't been sure Sylar was even listening to him, so immobile was he and his expression, but at these words, Sylar turned his head and looked away pointedly, before turning back much more slowly, eyes rising cautiously to Peter's face.

"Yeah." Peter nodded jaggedly. "Yeah, that's, uh, yeah." He smiled weakly, embarrassed and strangely charmed by the level of coaching Sylar needed on what Peter considered very basic interactions. One did not stare at the subject of one's affections like one was a cross between a socially inept teenager and a half-starved tiger, even if Sylar was, in his own way, both of these things. Peter touched along Sylar's jaw, his own gaze going from his fingers to Sylar's eyes repeatedly, checking in to make sure it was okay. Sylar remained as unreadable as a brick wall. Voice still soft, Peter said, "You don't have to fight me all the time. You don't have to try to … take over. Let me lead a little, okay? That's what I want to do." He paused for a moment, thinking about what Sylar knew of him. "I'm not the little kid Nathan knew. I want to be calling some of the shots in my life. It makes me feel safe." He touched the front of Sylar's chin with his thumb, not firmly, but just a suggestion for him to tilt his face downward. "It makes me feel sexy," Peter murmured as Sylar followed the gentle not-an-order. They kissed.

* * *

><p><strong>Title:<strong> Let Me Take A Mile  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar, Peter  
><strong>Words:<strong> 1,500  
><strong>Rating:<strong> R  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sylar makes use of the hints he's been given.

In laying out the ground rules for how Sylar could get with him, Peter had shown his colors even more than usual. He'd always hero-worshipped Nathan, but that was only a symptom of a broader complex, Sylar saw. Peter wanted the easy admiration Nathan had – the public support, people listening to him, the approval of their parents. For all Peter's defiance, he wanted to be his father. He wanted the power, the respect, the instant obedience Arthur so easily commanded from people, even total strangers. Young Peter had seen that, tried to emulate his male role models, and got smacked down for it time after time. He was too young, they'd earned it and he hadn't, and there just wasn't room for two favorites in the family. No wonder he was so angry inside. No wonder Peter had cultivated such a different career and social circle from the rest of the family. There was no other way to be his own man – 'it's my turn to be somebody, Nathan', he'd said, words so clear and meaningful about the thing Peter was willing to die for.

In their circles, among his parent's friends or Nathan's cronies, he was always the disregarded, bratty little brother and although Peter knew how to play that role through long practice, it wasn't the one he wanted. He wanted to be the star. He wanted to be the hero. He wanted to be king of the hill, the leader, a big shot. He wanted to be everything his last name should have entitled him to. He was stamped from top to bottom as a Petrelli, from his rebellious, too-long hair that was nevertheless expertly styled to the higher-end footwear that evened his gait and subtly made his bowlegs a non-issue. Even the workout routine Peter was plowing through at the moment were marks of his wealth and privilege – those less fortunate did not have the free time or the equipment unless they were in prison. As Sylar was, now.

_So Petrelli wants me to be his bitch_, Sylar thought, trying out the idea. It should have been galling, but Peter had been so transparent that it was mostly amusing. It wasn't as much a threat to his pride when Peter put it as 'I'll be more turned on if you act inferior' than if he'd implied Sylar was actually inferior. It helped, too, to know where it was coming from. Sylar had _been_ Nathan for a little while. The power and prestige had its perks, but they weren't the important things about the identity, any more than abilities defined who Sylar was. That last was something that had taken Sylar years to work out. Perhaps Peter would learn faster. It depended on how good a teacher Sylar was.

Peter finished his workout and toweled the sweat off his face. Sylar closed his book and held it to the side, adopting an attentive posture. He might as well start now. Even that small change from his usual pattern of lounging disinterestedly changed Peter's behavior. Instead of going straight out, Peter rubbed the towel across the back of his neck and stretched a couple times. He was posing for him, Sylar saw with delight. Sylar could see even see Peter watching him in one of the wall mirrors, making sure his audience was paying attention. The moment Peter saw his gaze had been noticed, he looked embarrassed, tossing the towel over one shoulder and turning to leave.

"Wait," Sylar asked, still sitting. "Can you show me?" _Lead me_.

"Show you what?" Peter stopped at the door.

"How do you pick which weight to start with?" It didn't matter if Sylar knew the answers or not. What mattered was letting Peter tell him, letting him have the attention he so sorely craved.

"Well," Peter said slowly, loitering near the door, "it depends on what you're looking to do. If you want bulk, it's high weights and low reps. If you want strength and maybe sculpting, it's lower weights and higher reps." He looked from the free weight rack to Sylar, who had shown only a passing interest in the past.

Sylar went where Peter's eyes had directed him. Standing over the rack, he asked, "What do you consider a high weight?"

"As high as you can lift without injury." And here Peter came, walking over to stand next to Sylar. Sylar felt a thrill of joy, as he always did at successfully manipulating people. It was such a small thing, but it tickled him in the right places.

Sylar picked up the twenty-five pound dumbbell and hefted it. "This seems light." To demonstrate, he tossed it an inch or so before catching it. He might not have Peter's brawn, but a hard life had not left him a weakling.

"No! Don't do that." Peter's hands were on him now, touching his forearm with one and his hand with the other. "That's really hard on your shoulder. Get something heavier then. Respect the weight. Respect your body."

Sylar was returning the dumbbell as Peter spoke. At the end, he looked up at the man, keeping his somewhat bent-over posture. "Respect my body?" he repeated quietly, just leaving the words hanging in the air for Peter to react to.

Peter's expression changed – brows drew in and his mouth relaxed. His lips parted slightly. He put his hand on Sylar's hip and pressed. "Squat. Don't lean over like that when you're going to lift. You'll strain something." His words were softer.

Sylar squatted. As he handled the weights, Peter fondled his shoulder, short strokes on the outside of his t-shirt. Sylar didn't know how to respond to that, so he just let it happen, enjoying the little touches and taking his time with the dumbbells. He and Peter hadn't even gone so far as to have a serious make-out session yet. They'd managed kissing and getting closer to one another. Sylar had groped him against the wall once, which had earned him an open-handed smack that connected, followed by a left hook that didn't. The smack was sexy. The hook wasn't, which he assumed was why Peter had launched it. He had not missed that Peter didn't try too hard with the hook. It had seemed like a mixed signal at the time. Now it made sense. Peter wasn't objecting to the intimacy. Sylar had been using the wrong approach.

He settled on a weight and stood. "One of them or two?"

"One's good to start with." Peter's hands traveled down Sylar's triceps with a lot of unnecessary contact. He pressed on Sylar's elbow. "Keep this straight and pump up and down." Sylar struggled to keep a straight face at Peter's pornographic directions. "You want to make your biceps do all the work. Keep the muscle isolated. If you have the weight right, you should be able to do ten or fifteen reps before muscle fatigue. Then stop, do the other arm, wait thirty seconds or so, and repeat the set. You do that for three sets and then stop."

"That shouldn't take long," Sylar said, finding the weight already more challenging than he wanted, having mistakenly picked what felt like the limit of his ability to lift even two or three times. His ego did not allow him to show it, but he was relieved to switch at ten repetitions.

"Don't curl your wrist. Keep it straight." Peter reached across him needlessly, as though Sylar wouldn't know which body part Peter was referring to unless he touched it.

Sylar stopped at a single set, hoping Peter wouldn't mind. These weren't the muscles he was hoping to flex. He squatted again to return the weight. He looked up at Peter from below – Peter, who hadn't moved away and was still standing over him, touched his shoulder again. _Ah_. A light bulb went off in Sylar's head for what that touch was about. _He wants a blow job_. From the squat on his toes, he turned at the hips and settled forward on his knees. Peter took an immediate step back. _Shit. Misjudged_. Sylar looked up at him, his wide eyes all innocence and intention. "Too forward?"

Peter swallowed and stammered, "N-no. Well, not- It's- I'm dirty." He gestured at the weight machines. "I just finished. I'm sweaty." He hesitated for a moment. "Unless you're into that?"

Sylar tried to sort out if Peter was really that fastidious (improbable), or if he was just looking for an excuse to turn him down (then why ask if it worked for him?) "What if I am?"

"Uh … kay." Peter scratched nervously at his belly. He just stood there, looking spooked.

Sylar remained on his knees, canted about halfway between facing Peter and facing the weight rack. He put a hand on the weight rack, trying to look casual and unthreatening. "Are _you_?"

"Uh, no. I'd feel bad about what I was making you put up with the whole time, unless that was what was doing it for you."

"Ah." _An excess of consideration – that fits._

"Come, uh," Peter shifted his weight uneasily, "come take a shower with me?"

_I thought you'd never ask._ "I'd love to." Sylar rose smoothly to his feet and followed. He kept his distance, remembering that left hook. Crowding Peter and taking what he wanted wasn't the way this relationship was going to go. That made it different from the relationships he'd had with women – all of whom seemed to appreciate him being take-charge. Peter was special. He smiled to himself about that.

Once in the shower, there wasn't going to be much choice about being close. From out in the hall, Sylar watched Peter strip in the penthouse bathroom. Shoes had been left near the front door. Socks came off as soon as Peter entered the bathroom. The shirt came off smoothly … then Peter paused, glancing back at Sylar as he wadded the cloth. Sylar waited, taking in every inch of Peter with his eyes. He knew what was under those shorts in a general way. He'd caught glimpses now and then enough to know Peter was basically normal in size and had so little pubic hair as to make Sylar wonder if he trimmed it. Peter turned to face him, dropping the shirt to the side as he squared up confrontationally. His face was a shut book.

_Time to show I was listening yesterday._ Sylar strode to him with steady, unhurried steps, never breaking eye contact. Peter's nose wrinkled and the man sucked in breath, trying his damnedest to look bigger. That was amusing. Sylar stopped less than a hand's span apart. He loved being tall. He looked almost directly down at Peter, their height difference exaggerated by Peter being barefoot. Peter's eyes fairly glittered with defiance, anger, and other dark emotions spawned from a lifetime of insecurity and jealousy. Sylar met those eyes, let himself drown in the intensity of the emotions and how it filled Peter's frame with such fire. It connected them. Peter never gave an inch when his back was up. That was another thing Sylar loved – Peter's persistence, his passion, and his spirit.

With deliberate intention, Sylar gave Peter what he wanted. He looked away, down and to the side, hooding his eyes and almost shutting them. He dipped his head and turned it, letting his face take on its most placid expression. He felt Peter's exhale. In his peripheral vision, he could see the man's stance relax. Sylar turned his head back to look at Peter full-on, peering out from under his brows. It was a threatening look, face hard. The intimidation was spoiled by Peter almost playfully touching Sylar's lips, his own expression happy.

"Come on," Peter chirped, all lightness now. He even gave Sylar a quick smooch before shucking his gym shorts and heading into the shower so quickly Sylar didn't see anything but a flash of gloriously rounded, pale cheeks.

Peter turned on the water, hidden now behind the contoured resin surface of the shower door. Sylar stood there with a slowly blooming smile. He was touching his own lips as Peter had. _It worked. _That thrill of getting someone to act as he wished ran through him from top to bottom, lingering longest in his middle._ I'm going to have __**so**__ much fun with this!_

* * *

><p><strong>Title:<strong> Coming Clean  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Words:<strong> 1,400  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Shifting POV per paragraph. Hopefully it's not too disorienting.  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> They shower and get off.

Peter took the one step back he could take when Sylar joined him in the shower. He'd begun to wonder if the man would. Sylar had taken long enough for Peter to soap and rinse everything. He'd been thinking about moving on to his hair when the shower door finally opened. Sylar had a presence and dignity even naked. Peter admired him openly for a moment – curly dark hair, pale skin, long and lean body. Then Peter looked around the rest of the shower stall, thinking that was more polite than continuing to ogle. He gestured for Sylar to move to the center and use the spray.

Sylar, for his part, was hyper-aware that he was pasty-white, lanky, and hairy. He tried his best not to be tense or adopt an aggressive posture. It was tough, though, when Peter retreated the moment he approached. He stood for inspection, not sure what it meant when Peter looked away. _Is he disappointed?_ Peter waved him towards the shower spray. That would put him closer to the other man, so he took it, dipping his head into the warm water and rinsing his face.

Peter leaned against the cool tile and traced along Sylar's shoulder, down his upper arm and to the hollow of his elbow. Sylar glanced at him but didn't react otherwise. Instead, Sylar took up the washcloth and soap, setting about cleaning himself while Peter's fingers danced over whatever portion of his body was within reach. Sylar did not stray from him. His skin was soft, incredibly so. Peter recognized the phenomenon from the time when he'd been nearly vaporized in the future. He'd regenerated somehow and among the various consequences, he'd found that his skin had grown back baby-smooth. It was nice to touch, but he wondered what had happened to Sylar so recently as to leave this markless mark on him.

Sylar found many reasons to turn, luxuriating in Peter's light, undemanding touch. He wanted more – he always did – but this was nice and free and intimate. It also gave him an idea of where Peter's mind was. Not in the gutter, apparently, because he didn't linger over nipples, go below the waist, or above the neck. It was almost platonic, making Sylar wonder if he'd completely misread the situation. Given that he was standing in the shower naked with Peter, that seemed unlikely.

When Sylar put up the washcloth, Peter took his nearer upper arm in both hands and rubbed the bicep, manipulating it with a firm but gentle pressure. Then he turned Sylar so he could do the other arm, keeping his eyes on his work even as he could feel Sylar watching him. When done, he rested one palm on each and looked up. Sylar gave him, again, the brief glance down and back up. Sylar's hands rose to cup the back of Peter's elbows, then touch at his sides. Peter smiled as butterflies fluttered in his gut. _We're really going to do this? Yeah, we are. _His smile turned almost pained and he shifted his weight. He was so tense and uneasy. Sylar was a killer. He was dangerous. He was unstable. His murders had not been accidents. _This is such a bad idea._ Peter let his hands smooth over the wet, warm skin, sliding to the back of the arms and pulling Sylar forward and against him. He'd worry about consequences later, like he always did.

_Yes, yes, yes!_ a voice was chanting in the back of Sylar's head as he stepped nearer and oh-so-gently gathered Peter into his arms. Peter tilted his head up and to one side. Sylar matched him. They'd done this before, too, just fully clothed and not in a shower. This kiss wasn't as tentative as that one had been. Sylar knew Peter's taste now. He knew the way his skin smelled up close. He knew the way Peter kissed him repeatedly rather than continuously, and how the little man mixed it up by sucking on his lips and teasing with his tongue. Sylar curled his hand behind Peter's head to cradle it and hold him there. The water beat down on Sylar's back and ran down his legs. He had to reach down and adjust himself so he was not trapped to one side, but was fully erect against Peter's lower belly.

Peter hummed with interest when Sylar's hand traveled downward, but the contact was minimal and inadvertent. Peter dropped his own hand, which was neither. He took up his mostly hard penis and gripped it with Sylar's own. Sylar was still for the moment, looking down and watching carefully. It was the kind of thing to watch, so Peter did, too. They were looking down on the heads of two cocks, one hand partly surrounding them, sliding up and down slowly. Peter looked to the side at the rack, pulling down some body wash. It seemed the least likely to cause irritation. A good dollop of it between them made his handful slippery. Sylar took the bottle from him and put it back, letting Peter use both hands.

From Sylar's standpoint, this was very strange sex. But it seemed very safe. It didn't hit any of his problematic buttons, it got him close to Peter, and it was definitely going to get him off. Especially once the lotion or shower gel or whatever was added to the mix and he moved himself to prevent the water from washing it away. Then he just let Peter go to town, giving him a sudsy hand job while rubbing one out himself, in the same … handful. Sylar even smiled as he watched. It was simple, friendly … boyish was another word that came to his mind. He could imagine a couple Boy Scouts or other adolescents helping each other out like this. His mother had always said those organizations were rife with perverted behavior. He chuckled at how right she might have been. Maybe that was where Peter learned all this. Since his hands were free, he began to caress Peter's face and kiss him. It was a welcome distraction from the desire to thrust, which was building fast inside himself.

Peter moaned when Sylar finally began taking some initiative himself, cradling his head, stroking his cheeks, and kissing him deeply and passionately. Sylar's insistent, probing tongue earned several more moans as Peter leaned against the cool tile and pumped his joined hands up and down around their members. He could feel Sylar's hips beginning to hitch, so he changed the timing of his strokes. A second later, Sylar caught on and fucked his hands in sync. "Oh!" Peter pulled away for air, panting in the steamy atmosphere. Sylar's kisses didn't stop. They trailed sloppily across his cheek and licked down his neck, where Sylar stopped to use his teeth. "Ah!" Peter tensed all over, rising up on his toes as nibbles turned into harder, demanding bites. He pumped faster, not caring if Sylar kept up with him. He squeezed their organs together, feeling their ridges sliding up and down, the lather frothy and hot.

Sylar could feel Peter straining and flexing under him. Neck muscles corded and jumped, his hands frigged them together faster and faster. He was right on the cusp of coming, but tried to hold it off until Peter popped. He hooked one arm around Peter's head, pulling it to the side to completely expose his shoulder and neck. Sylar littered it with bites and love marks. "Every time I look at you, I want to see these," he murmured between marks. "I want to know we were together. I want to fuck you and suck on these when I do it-"

"Ah!" Peter tensed all over, the pornographic image from Sylar's words pushing him over and filling him with surging heat. He spurted and dribbled. Sylar turned him, kissed him savagely hard, owning him through his mouth, and came as well. Sylar pressed him against the wall, rubbing his whole body up and down on Peter, smearing them both with lather and ejaculate, while nuzzling at Peter's face affectionately. Peter smiled lazily and returned it, thinking he'd never seen Sylar act quite like that. He liked it. It made him feel warm inside, and connected. "You want to fuck me?" he whispered.

Sylar breathed out heavily. "I have wanted to fuck you since the moment I saw you on the road, with that pipe." He rubbed his cheek against Peter's like a cat. "But you're the one calling the shots here."

Peter laughed softly and reached out the let the water wash off one hand before he stroked it through Sylar's hair. "You let me feel sexy and I'll give you anything you want."

Sylar leaned back, smiling slyly as he looked down at Peter's chest, fingers absently circling a dark nipple. "That _is_ the idea."


	88. Head Game

**Title:** Head Game  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar, Peter  
><strong>Words:<strong> 6,300  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Mild abusive behavior and messed-up thought patterns.  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter blows Sylar's mind. Sylar returns the favor. POV shift to Peter in the middle.

* * *

><p>Sex with Elle had not come out of left field. Sylar had been considering the differences between her and Peter. Intimacy with Elle had been the result of a relationship, consisting of many shared adventures and the development of trust. By the time he'd seized and taken her in the Canfield's deserted home, she'd already accepted him. With that in mind, Sylar had begun trying something new – touching Peter, frequently, and as familiarly as Peter would allow. As it turned out, that was much more familiar than Sylar had expected. At the moment, Peter was skimming through sheet music, his guitar next to him on the couch. Sylar touched his shoulder, pinching up the fabric to rub it briefly between his fingertips. Peter ignored him.<p>

Sylar, standing next to the end of the couch where Peter was sitting, hitched up his hip to sit on the arm of the furniture and turned his hand so he could smooth his thumb across the side of Peter's neck. Bare, warm skin. It was human and real. It anchored him – a tiny, fleeting connection. Instead of batting him away as he'd expected, Peter sighed and let his head loll back as his heavy-lidded eyes tracked over to Sylar.

_Oh?_ All that neck, bared to him, vulnerable and so clearly offered. _Ohhh … He must be in the mood for something_. Sylar turned his hand to stroke the side of Peter's neck with his knuckles, then cupped it over his windpipe. Peter drew in air with the motion, nostrils flaring slightly. He blew it out. His eyes shut completely as Sylar caressed him. Peter's Adam's apple was a hard knot under Sylar's palm. He pressed on it slightly. Peter's lips parted. _Oh, wow_. Sylar was moved, immediately and spontaneously. He got up and turned, leaning over Peter swiftly to press his mouth over that naked throat, his teeth menacing the delicate skin. Under his lips, he felt Peter growl. The next moment, Peter twined a hand into Sylar's hair, gripped tight, and pulled him off. He was pushed away.

The expression on Peter's face was almost disgusted. Yet it seemed … overdone. Sylar studied him as he straightened. Disgust was the polar opposite of attraction, but there was no way he'd misread Peter's receptivity. Just to test it, he reached out, saying, "Here, let me wipe that off for you." Peter gave Sylar's hand the same half-snarling look of disapproval, but he didn't stop it from touching the saliva-wet spot on his neck where Sylar's mouth had been. Sylar didn't wipe. He smeared. He was certain Peter could tell the difference. Peter's eyes were fixed on his with a smoldering look that was totally new. Sylar dared not look away. _Dilated pupils,_ the analytical part of his brain registered.

He lifted his hand, paused, and then touched his damp fingers to Peter's lips with the intention of sliding them across if it was allowed. He didn't think it would be. This had already gone way, way beyond what Peter had permitted before. To his shock, Peter opened his mouth and sucked in those two moist fingers. A twitch ran through Sylar. Even when he was completely surprised, he hardly ever moved. Stillness was the default, but this startled him so much as to throw all normal reactions out the window. There was warmth – soft, wet warmth encasing his fingers, followed a moment later by Peter positioning them with his tongue and biting the fingertips. Sylar's mouth dropped open. He was sure he looked like an idiot. He huffed out a surprised breath and his lids flickered as Peter sucked the fingers in deeper again, fondling them with his tongue.

_Oh … oh … Oh my God, that's so filthy … and perverted._ So deeply, deeply perverted. The things he'd done with those fingers – even Peter knew enough of what he'd done that he'd be more justified to bite them off than this … this … whatever Peter was doing_. He's blowing my fingers. Oh my God, he's fellating my fingers!_ Sylar twitched them slightly, barely daring to breathe. _I could get off from this_, that other, dispassionate corner of his mind mentioned. Peter rolled the fingers to one side of his mouth where he rubbed them over and against his molars, before going back to the soft middle, cradled by the roll of his tongue. Then he sucked hard for a moment.

The whole time, Peter had been staring at him with only the briefest breaks to blink and apparently savor what he was doing. Sylar smiled haltingly and huffed out something like a chuckle. He might have spoken, but Peter interrupted by reaching for Sylar's groin. It was right on a level with him. The erection there had been largely unnoticed. Peter's fingers found it without ever looking. He rubbed and that first pressure made Sylar whimper involuntarily. _I am not going to cream my pants, _he told himself firmly. _Not over so little._

But it wasn't so little. Peter ejected the fingers from his mouth, sat up, and abruptly put his face to Sylar's crotch, rubbing it back and forth in a slow, luxuriating motion over the hard ridge of his erection. It was very sensual. His dick went from mostly hard to rock solid. His hands clutched at Peter's hair, combing through it with rapid petting motions. He could near Peter inhaling against him. _So fucking dirty!_ And then feel the heat of his breath steaming through the denim of his jeans and cotton of his underwear. "Ahh," Sylar groaned softly.

He felt something sharp and looked down to see Peter was mouthing the cylindrical bulge of his penis, biting at it through the cloth_. I'm going to … No, no, please no. Don't._ He pulled Peter back, seeing the darker splotch of Peter's drool marking his erection. Peter licked his lips and reached up to pick open the top button of Sylar's fly. _He … What? _He mouthed, _No … _Sylar had no idea how serious Peter was or wasn't.

Sylar's brain felt like it was shorting out. Peter leaned back a bit to look up at him with a sultry, mischievous smile on his luscious, reddened lips. That was when the explanation hit Sylar like a blow: _It's a joke. He's … teasing. Joking. Showing me what I can never have._ Despair flooded through him, more horrible and wrenching than for many things in his life that he would have objectively judged worse. So someone wasn't going to blow him. Big deal, right? But he'd been so close. And it had been _Peter_. And there was everything that might mean if _Peter_ were willing to touch him like that! Then there was the betrayal to deal with. Peter had been friendly to him for days now, even weeks. Had it all been leading up to a foul trick?

Then Peter laughed and gave a tug at one of Sylar's belt loops that he had hooked a finger through. "Come on," Peter said.

Sylar's voice caught in his throat. With difficulty, he coughed out, "Don't fuck with me!" He couldn't tell if he sounded outraged or terrified, aggressive or weak.

Peter's expression sobered. He kept watching Sylar's face as the hand on Sylar's belt loop abandoned its position to snake around and stroke his ass. "Fucking wasn't what I had in mind."

_It … what?_ Sylar blinked at him, struggling. The touch on his rear end had immediately proposed another option – perhaps Peter was suggesting he fellate Sylar in exchange for a turn at his ass. If that was the deal, Sylar would agree. But then Peter's words – fucking wasn't what he had in mind?

"You're fucking with me," Sylar growled with hurt. He was cycling through emotions hard and fast.

"No," Peter said softly, almost a croon. "I'm not." His fingers found Sylar's crack and worked their way up and down the seam. Sylar resisted the urge to spread for him – not until he knew what the deal was. Which was kind of ridiculous, as he was perfectly willing to give up the goods. He just didn't know what was going on. Peter's other hand explored the top of his jeans, toying with the unfastened button. "I'll bet you have a beautiful cock." Fingers trailed down to tease the shaft.

Sylar quivered. "I don't understand why you're doing this."

"I happen to enjoy giving head," Peter said, now lightly pinching the head between thumb and index finger.

"That's impossible!" Sylar spat out before he could consider it. Oral sex was never provided willingly except in exchange for financial remuneration, or under the emotional extortion of a relationship – 'suck me or I'll break up with you', 'suck me or I won't give you any money to buy that thing you want'. That was why it was so popular in porn – it was a clear marker of subservience and domination. It was an ego stroke to force someone else to do it. The idea that someone would _want_ to do it of their own free will? Impossible.

Peter's hands lifted from him. His expression soured. "Are you calling me a liar?"

_Oh. Crap._ That was something Peter took special exception to and Sylar knew it. He swallowed. "No. I just …" Sylar gestured at his crotch. The whole thing was inexplicable. He rubbed at his engorged organ. _All I was doing was touching your neck, _he whined inside at how carried away this had become. He felt boxed in a corner. _I'll be good. I can be good. Good boys get rewards, right? _Not that he'd ever been given much of a reward, but that was what he'd always been told. "You like it?"

"I like it." Peter gave a single, determined nod. He touched Sylar's top button again and that was all he touched. "Do you?"

_OH!_ A new possibility ran through Sylar's head. Peter had stopped progressing when Sylar had pulled him away and lipped, 'No.' Obviously, it had been seen. It had been seen and was being … respected. Almost. Sort of. Peter was still molesting him, but he'd otherwise stopped. _He needs my permission. He's asking for it_. None of it made any sense, why Peter would want to suck him off at all, but that was a mystery Sylar was content to explore after the sex act was complete. "Yes."

Swallowing down his doubts, Sylar stepped directly in front of Peter, trapping him on the couch with his knees on either side of Peter's. He unzipped his fly and pushed down his jeans. Peter's hands stroked over his and played with the band of his underwear. He looked completely serious. With a deep breath, Sylar hooked his fingers into the cotton briefs and tugged them down, too. He'd lost some of the raging erection he'd had moments earlier. Tension and fear had taken it out of him. Peter viewing him now didn't help either, even with Peter's rapt expression. Before he lost it entirely, Sylar reached out, grabbed a fistful of Peter's hair, and pulled him to him.

"Hey!" Peter objected, getting a forearm across Sylar's thigh and resisting.

"You said you wanted it." Sylar let go, confused. He felt the edge of anger welling up.

"Not like that!"

_Does he want a different position?_ Sylar strongly considered backhanding Peter just for being a brat. It would be so easy to do.

Peter massaged his scalp, making a big deal out of nothing. "Be nice to me," he ordered.

Sylar frowned. He was entirely flaccid now. He wished he was erect so he could hit Peter and then shove himself down the man's throat. That's what he deserved for all this teasing and taunting, all this build-up without delivering. But instead, here he was, impotent. Peter came closer and touched him, sliding a finger along the now-dangling flesh. Sylar snorted and backed off, disgusted that Peter would touch him while he was so soft. It was all too fucked up. He didn't understand it. It didn't make sense. And he wasn't aroused anymore. He yanked up his jeans and fastened them quickly. "Go fuck yourself if you want it so bad," he snarled. He made a fist and raised it. Peter looked between it and Sylar's face, Peter's own suddenly wary and pale. Hitting him would be so satisfying. It would end the fascination his subconscious already had with sticking his dick into Peter's mouth – seeing that opening bleeding and torn would kill his libido. Peter's face hardened. He was going to fight back.

"I'm damaged goods, Peter," Sylar warned. He shook his head, dropped his fist, and stalked out.

* * *

><p>"How could you even be willing to do that? It's disgusting!"<p>

It had been more than a week, but Peter still knew exactly what Sylar was talking about. He favored him with a displeased look. "I _like_ doing it."

Sylar shook his head silently.

"How could you be willing to put your dick in my mouth, huh?" Peter mocked. "It's lined with teeth. The mouth is the dirtiest part of the human body. It's full of spit and undigested food particles." Sylar blanched at the graphic description. Peter smiled, his point made. "But, lemme guess – you_ like_ doing it?"

Sylar looked away.

"Have you ever had a blow job?"

"Yes," Sylar snapped, "of course I have."

"'Of course', huh?"

"I'm sure you've had hundreds!" Sylar said spitefully.

Peter shrugged and said slowly, "Maybe. I'm sure I've given more than I've gotten. I'm happy about that."

"You're sick."

Peter's eyes emptied of expression. He remembered sitting in front of the TV in the 80s, staring at an old episode of M.A.S.H. without seeing it, listening as his father told Nathan about why gay people couldn't be allowed in the military. They were so sick in the head that they'd spend all their time 'hooting each other's roots' instead of fighting the enemy and thinking about their sweethearts back home. In fact, they weren't even worth protecting as citizens. They were outside the norm, outside society's protection. They were sick, infectious, and contagious. They probably all had AIDS. They needed to be quarantined for the good of society, marked in some way so people could recognize them. The rant had gone on for the rest of the show, while Peter had sat there, slumped on the couch at the age of sixteen, thinking about the cute boy in his garage band that he'd been thinking of saying something to.

He didn't want to hit Sylar. He just wanted to crawl off under a rock and stay there. _That old saying that no one can make you feel inferior without your consent? That's bullshit._ He got up, gathered his things, and left.

* * *

><p>Three weeks was a long time to not hear anyone's voice. It wasn't a patch on three years, but Sylar had spent those years with no one there to ignore him. It was so much worse to know there was someone just down the street who wouldn't talk to him – that he was so repugnant that they would endure the silence just so they weren't interacting with him. And in case that wasn't bad enough, the person who preferred nothingness over him? It was Peter Petrelli, who could barely keep his hands off people and seemed to exist to interact with others. But not with Sylar. No, Sylar had managed to go from seconds away from being a sex partner to being an anathema.<p>

Stalking the avoidant Peter was an exercise in masochism. Sylar knew that, but by the time two weeks was turning into three, he was doing it anyway. Peter didn't flee or hide when he caught sight of Sylar, so it wasn't difficult to do. Sylar was leaning against the side of a brownstone building, watching Peter read comic books in a little strip of park next to the slow-moving river that bounded one side of the city. His stomach rumbled and he sighed. Soon, he'd have to give up his observation to seek out sustenance. When he got back, Peter might be gone. He frowned about that. Usually, he stayed as long as he could, but just then a plan hatched in his mind.

Fifteen minutes later, he was hurrying back to the park. To his relief, Peter was still there, enjoying the partly cloudy day under the dappled shade of a tall, otherwise nondescript tree. Carrying the grocery bag, Sylar walked up to him. It clinked when he set it down on the bench next to Peter, who gave him a scathing look for interrupting and coming so close. Sylar ignored that, sitting cross-legged on the grass, hands curled over his knees. Sylar inclined his head towards the sack. "That's for you."

Peter glared at him, then went back to the copy of Doctor Strange that he was reading. Sylar swallowed and looked away, watching the river roll by. Minutes passed and pages turned. The sound of another human presence was nice. So was the fact that Peter hadn't left. He looked back when Peter put aside the finished comic. Peter looked in the paper bag, then at Sylar. Sylar blurted, "You like that brand of soda, right? It's the one with cane sugar."

From his face, Peter was very clearly still pissed. Seventeen days later, and he was still angry. He really knew how to nurse a grudge. Though that probably had more to do with their past than anything about Peter particularly. It was amazing, really, that Peter hadn't come here to murder him, nor succumbed to the temptation that no doubt arose when they argued. It was downright mind-blowing that Peter tolerated his touch and had made what Sylar had decided was a completely serious offer to sexually service him. But maybe Peter was done being mad now, because he reached into the bag and pulled out a glass soda bottle, regarded the label proclaiming it to be orange and cream, then picked up the corner of his shirt to cushion his palm as he opened the cap. He sipped it and nodded approvingly.

Sylar stood up, hurrying over. Peter moved away from him along the bench, pushing over his comics to get away. Sylar pulled out the second bottle (for himself – crushed melon flavor, a certain irony there) and then a plastic bag of green grapes along with a second plastic bag of cheddar cheese cubes. "You said you liked cheese and grapes. I remember." Sylar offered them. If he was hungry, then Peter had to be as well. He'd tried food offerings in the past, but only the suggestion of and invitation for them and never putting the food directly in front of Peter. This was harder to turn down this way. After a sigh, Peter took the packages from him and set them down on the bench. He didn't eat. That was a bad sign. Sylar swallowed uncomfortably and mentally vetoed his plan to move the sack and sit where it had been. He pulled out an apple for himself and returned to the grass, this time in front of where Peter sat. He was in range to be kicked, should Peter think that was appropriate.

Peter regarded him steadily, then rearranged his comic books into a single stack. Sylar looked down and rotated the apple, rubbing it slowly against his jeans. "I was wondering if you could tell me what it's like." Peter slipped the stack into his backpack. Sylar cringed at the impending abandonment. "Please?" Sylar asked.

Peter sighed heavily and leaned back, reaching out with a foot and shoving Sylar's left knee. It was not a kick and Sylar was not hurt by it. If anything, he was heartened by the interaction. Peter grimaced and looked away.

"I'm sorry," Sylar whispered sadly, looking down at the apple he had no appetite for.

"For what?" Peter said dully, then coughed to clear his throat because he hadn't spoken in weeks. Sylar talked to himself enough that he didn't share the same problem.

"For everything," Sylar said, having no idea what, specifically, Peter was looking for. "For making all the bad decisions. They were my fault. I take responsibility." At least, he knew he should take responsibility, but honestly, he didn't really know what that meant. Nathan's memories were no help either. "I shouldn't have said what I did."

"Which was?"

Sylar swallowed again. This was a test he wasn't prepared for. "That you've had a lot of blow jobs …?"

Peter laughed scornfully, rolled his eyes, and opened the bag of grapes. He popped a couple in his mouth and chewed. "Sylar, you have No. Fucking. Clue."

Sylar pursed his lips and was silent. At least Peter was talking to him again. To that, he credited the gift of food and the deliberate choice of a subordinate position, though that had been a near thing.

"What you should be sorry for is telling me I'm fucked up and there's something wrong with me. There's not. And there's nothing wrong with you, either." Peter frowned at him. "'Damaged goods' doesn't get you off the hook. If you're going to take responsibility, you've got to fucking take responsibility!"

Sylar tried to make himself small. He let Peter have his rant. The words were musical in a way. There was a lot of percussion and base in them, thumping and moving, the sounds rolling with passion and dark energy.

"Pay attention to someone other than yourself. _Believe me_ when I say something isn't working for me. _Listen!_"

Sylar's head snapped up. He'd heard the words, but … well … yeah, he hadn't been listening the way Peter wanted him to listen. "I'm listening."

Peter looked at him suspiciously. "What does it mean – what I've said?"

"When you tell me something, I should believe it," Sylar said, paraphrasing carefully. "When you speak to me, I should listen." There were unpleasant consequences for not doing so. Aside from the silence, Peter would be unhappy, and that was something that had begun to matter more and more to Sylar as he realized Peter had been willing to be with him until he'd fucked it up by … whatever it was he'd done. But he was sure it was genuinely his fault. He'd figured that much out.

"I want to speak _with_ you," Peter said, a little yearning in his voice.

Sylar looked up at him, thinking about how hard the isolation had to be on Peter the empath, and how much of a lowlife he had to be for Peter to turn away the literal last man on earth. He nodded. "We're speaking with each other now."

Peter nodded back, opening the bag of cheese and picking out a couple cubes. Obviously, he'd been hungry. Peter had base needs, just like Sylar. "What is it you wanted me to tell you about?" Peter said sullenly.

Sylar responded, "What it's like to suck cock."

Peter nearly choked on the cheese. Sylar looked very concerned for him, mentally reviewing the process for the Heimlich maneuver, while Peter sputtered and gasped and got himself straightened out. "Um, yeah, kay," Peter said when he could breathe again. "I thought you said that was disgusting."

Sylar tilted his head to one side and back in something of a shrug. Carefully he said, "You said you liked doing it. I believe you."

Peter gave a smaller roll of his eyes and pulled out a grape and a cube of cheese. He judged them in his hand for a moment, then put both in his mouth at the same time. He chewed and swallowed. He was such a strange man. Sylar supposed it was to his benefit that Peter's appetites ran to the special and strange. "Yes," Peter said, "I _do_ like doing it. You like kissing, right?" Sylar nodded. "It's like kissing, but more. More intense. More," Peter gestured at his mouth, "more filling. You have … a dick in your mouth. I know that's obvious, but it's sexy, too, just to have it there. It's … heavy. It's in you. You can taste it, smell it, feel it. It's right in your face. It's overwhelming in a way. You know how a really great kiss can take your breath away?" Sylar nodded slowly, not that he knew what Peter meant. He'd always thought that was an exaggeration. "It's like that. It," Peter gestured at his groin, though there was no obvious erection at the moment, "turns me on."

"It … tastes okay?"

"Tastes fine. Tastes like dick. Assuming it's clean. I mean, you could suck someone's armpit right after a good shower where they cleaned up all over and it would be okay, but I wouldn't want to put my mouth there after they'd had a long day. Same with a blow job – it needs to air out a little before I want it. Maybe use a wet washcloth to get it clean."

"And at the end?"

"Of the blow job?" Sylar nodded. Peter went on, "You can usually tell when someone's going to come. If they're polite, they'll tell you. You keep sucking or you stop and jerk them off. If you keep sucking, then you swallow or spit. Come doesn't taste bad. At least, not normally."

"And … what do _you_ do?"

Peter raised his brows a bit and ate two grapes with a single, larger cube of cheese. "That depends on how I feel about the person."

Sylar nodded slowly, thinking it over. It was filthy and perverted and had given him a hard-on just thinking about it.

"Do you want to try it?"

That caught him off-guard, but it made sense immediately. 'Responsibility.' How better to demonstrate to Peter that Sylar saw nothing wrong with him, or his preferred sex acts, than to do them himself? If he ever wanted the wet dream of Peter sucking him like had almost (_almost!_) happened before he'd fucked it up, then this was the way to get it. Plus, he didn't want Peter thinking he thought he was the sick freak that Sylar felt he, himself, was. He'd reviewed his words obsessively and come to the conclusion they were poorly chosen and motivated by unhelpful prejudice. He was not the sort of person with the privilege of making such moral distinctions. He didn't know where the idea had even come from that he was – maybe it was some Nathan-esque holdover. He had killed at the direction of Petrellis, with less potential reward and less regard for the feelings of his master. He could do this. Peter might even be nice about it. "Okay." He rose to his knees, dropping his uneaten apple to the side.

"No," Peter said abruptly. "I've been out here all day. If it's your first time, let's … I can clean up."

Peter was definitely going to be nice about it. That was touching. Sylar stroked himself twice through his jeans, mostly to draw attention to it. "I'd rather have you dirty," he purred. He'd rather have it just like it was – the hard truth, the rough practicality of it. He didn't want it cleaned up or sugar-coated. He wanted it to be real. Peter's mouth opened, then shut without a sound. Sylar smiled toothily, deeply pleased to have shocked the more cultured Peter speechless. He knee-walked forward, putting his palms on Peter's knees and spreading them. Peter didn't resist; he just breathed out a surprised laugh.

"Right out here?" Peter practically squeaked.

"Mm-hmm," Sylar rumbled, insinuating himself between Peter's legs. _So naughty to be here, for you to let me be here._ They'd never been this close. The touching they'd done had been casual so far. The incident where Peter sucked his fingers was as licentious as they'd been. Sylar didn't know if a kiss was appropriate, but he knew he wanted one – and now. He assumed Peter wouldn't provide one after. If he was going to suck the guy's dick, then he wanted to at least get something for himself out of it. He was on his knees; Peter on the bench; their faces were actually on a level. He kissed Peter without permission or reservation. Peter tensed. Clearly this wasn't expected or even very welcome, but that was the story of Sylar's life. He touched one side of Peter's face with his fingertips, trying to make it okay, as his other hand slipped behind Peter's head in case the man tried to refuse him. Truth be told, it was the first time he'd ever kissed a man. He knew it wasn't Peter's first time, but for all the surprise the little Petrelli was showing, it might as well have been.

When Peter didn't pull away immediately, but instead turned his face and tried to kiss back, Sylar let his hands drop, smoothing them over Peter's shoulders and arms, then coming back up along his chest. Sylar sucked at the lips, letting his eyes slide shut. He moaned when Peter's mouth opened and a tongue tickled along his lips. He swiped at Peter's tongue himself. It retreated. His followed. Peter tasted wonderful. The grapes and cheese made a creamy, tangy, sharp-sweet counterpoint, layered and complicated with the citrus fizz of the soda in the background. Behind it all was Peter himself, not too different from his scent. The flavor was stronger, more visceral. It was masculine and robust, clean and smooth, easy on his tongue. He could taste that for hours without getting tired of it, he realized.

Peter sighed in pleasure as the kiss wore on, hands stroking Sylar's sides encouragingly. Peter was an amazingly good kisser, nothing at all like Elle who was all wild enthusiasm or Lydia who was too slow and lost in it for his preference. Peter engaged, led, teased and provoked. He played with his mouth and with Sylar's, all the while his hands caressed and stroked and gripped. It went on and on like neither of them had kissed anyone else in forever.

Peter was the one who broke it off, nuzzling at Sylar's face and dragging his lower lip across Sylar's cheek, his eyes half-closed. _He's been starving for this,_ Sylar thought, wondering if it was cruel that he hadn't been the sort of partner Peter could satisfy himself with easily. Sylar growled. He was as he was. Maybe Peter needed to learn to deal for once. Peter _was_ dealing – and if his current method included sucking on Sylar's earlobe, Sylar wasn't going to complain. Sylar pushed his hips forward in short, rhythmic motions. His crotch was against the curled edge of the bench. It was just a pressure. He wished he could jerk Peter forward, vaporize both their clothes, and fuck him right here, but that wouldn't be allowed. Peter was behaving, so it was well past time for Sylar to get to business. He gave a hard nip to Peter's neck because he could, and looked down to unfasten the man's jeans. Sylar sank to his haunches as Peter wriggled and positioned himself, eagerly pushing down his jeans and pulling himself out, erect penis and testicles together.

Sylar viewed, and smiled slowly. He remembered what Peter had said to him. "Now _that_ is a beautiful cock." It was a normal length, naturally darker than the rest of Peter's skin and currently flushed with arousal. The head was not fully swollen, but there was still a drop of wetness on it. Short, wiry, sparse pubic hair surrounded it, reminding him of how patchy a younger Peter's attempts to grow a beard had been. Obviously, the hair growth pattern extended to other areas than his face. Sylar inhaled deeply of his scent. It was strong, but not repellant. He couldn't see what Peter was bothering to warn him about – they'd both smelled far worse things. But he made a mental note of how this reflected on Peter's preferences. It would be useful later, he was sure. He leaned closer, his hands on Peter's splayed knees, and breathed in deeply once more.

"Is it okay?" Peter asked, petting the side of Sylar's head.

Sylar turned his head up only enough to roll his eyes upward and see Peter under his brows. His smile broadened. Peter was as insecure and uneasy as Sylar had been almost four weeks ago. He glanced back down, thinking about how he'd feel if Peter balled that fist in his hair and shoved his face at his groin as Sylar had more or less done with Peter. Sylar might not object, but he wouldn't be happy. That, then, seemed to have been his misstep, the thing that had damaged their first, tentative connection. He made a mental note of that, too, intending to never do it again. He had to strengthen those ties, even if it meant behavior modification.

He didn't know how to start, so he just kept leaning in until he was there. Swallowing, he gingerly wrapped his lips around the head. Peter's erection was flagging – again, it was just as Sylar recalled his own had. Nerves. That Peter was nervous calmed Sylar. It meant he could be in control here. He was the one, as Peter had pointed out, with his sharp, dangerous teeth wrapped around Peter's defenseless penis. He touched those teeth to the sensitive flesh. One of Peter's feet shifted in discomfort so Sylar lifted them off his skin and used his pursed lips to hold the cock away from his teeth.

Sylar licked, having heretofore been holding his tongue back and away from contact. Now he tasted. The fluid at the tip had a flavor all its own. It was a bodily fluid and tasted like some distant combination of saliva and blood, without the metallic taste blood always had. It was like serum, or gunk or various less pleasant but pedestrian secretions. He let the tension go out of his body. It wasn't bad, not by itself. The thing that gave him psychological dissonance was putting Peter Petrelli's cock in his mouth – not the sensations themselves. The sensations were pleasant. The filthy perversion he was committing was … well, there was no other way to think about it than the same way he did about anything else that was forbidden and nasty. It was _hot_. And so, so wrong. His own erection strained against his fly.

Sylar started sucking and bobbing slowly, working out where he could put his tongue and what he could do with it. Peter's moans and breathy gasps were a good guide, as was Peter stroking Sylar's hair and the occasional rises of his hips. Sylar was doing it for him, clearly. That was fantastic. He was being of use. He was wanted. What he could do was of value to Peter. Peter was accepting him, showing his trust, and thoroughly demonstrating it. Peter's hands were buried in his hair, but not holding his head or directing him. The only direction was the occasional grasping he did, tucking his feet up under the bench and whining when he'd shift his hips in a tiny, involuntary thrust.

All this display of arousal was going straight to Sylar's dick. He had a free hand, so he reached down and massaged his groin, his other hand wrapped around the base of Peter's cock to keep it steady. Sylar was slurping messily, drool running down over his fist. There was nothing else for it – keeping one's mouth open over and around something triggered the reaction, which seemed as inescapable as the aching need in his pants.

Sylar pulled back to just the tip, encircling the knob with his generous lips and applying suction. Peter almost came up off the bench. "I'm coming!" Peter blurted out, the first articulate thing he'd said throughout the blow job. One of Peter's hands nudged his head frantically, like Peter hadn't realized until too late what was happening.

Sylar felt a surge in his loins at how much he'd made Peter lose control. This was his chance to show how far he was willing to go, how much he was willing to do, and how giving a partner he would be if Peter elected to continue with him. A few determined sucks later, he felt Peter's seed spilling into his mouth, hot and spurting. He swallowed hard and immediately, hardly tasting it at all. His own hips bucked forward unexpectedly and he nearly gagged himself on Peter's cock as he felt a surge in his loins. His throat worked again reflexively as Peter's second wave of ejaculate threatened to choke him. Tears stood out in his eyes as he unexpectedly came. He swallowed a last time, lifting himself off to breathe in rough, semen-scented gasps.

He glanced over things. There was so much slobber that the crotch of Peter's jeans was soaked like the man had wet himself. Sylar knew he looked just as disgusting with a spreading wet patch to show his shame. That was what they were now – both of them – flagrantly indecent for one another. He sucked in lungfuls of Peter's scent, the smell of his sex and come, wanting to imprint this into his brain – this was his connection. This was his tie. He squeezed Peter's penis and licked the last drop that oozed from it, holding that sticky, pearly drop on his tongue as he looked up at his partner in crime and showed it to him. It was filthy, sick, and nasty. It was also honest, lustful, and for him alone. Sylar swallowed it down.


	89. Serial Killers

**Title:** Serial Killers  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Words:<strong> 700  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter wants to know why Sylar doesn't consider himself to be a serial killer.  
><strong>Note:<strong> Sylar's recitation is paraphrased from the Wikipedia page on serial killers.

* * *

><p>"The other day, you told me you weren't a serial killer, but you didn't explain why."<p>

"What you're asking is personal," Sylar said like that was the end of the matter.

Peter drew back his head and scoffed. "Like me telling you what it was like to go down on Catey wasn't."

Sylar looked confused and uneasy, then he sneered. "You've had sex with so many people it's practically public knowledge anyway."

Peter stepped closer and even though he did it casual, Sylar knew enough to go on alert. He didn't flinch or dodge when Peter grabbed his shirt and shoved him against the wall, even though he fully expected to get hit. Peter's free hand went to Sylar's shoulder, palm flat against it to hold him there. Sylar didn't resist. With intimidating calmness, Peter told him, "Who I'm with and what we do together is private. That I tell you about it is a sign of how much I trust you, not that it's something I'd tell to anyone who asks. If you want to keep that trust, then you have to show some respect."

"Respect for your legendary cunnilingus skills?" Sylar couldn't help but snark. It earned him a hard slap, almost instantly. Peter's hand was back on Sylar's shoulder before Sylar had even worked out which one he'd been hit with. His cheek stung and reddened, but his face became more impassive than ever.

"I share very personal things with you all the time, Sylar. Don't act like you're the only one making an effort here. You have reasons. I want to know what they are." Peter released him and stepped away.

Sylar glared at him. "You think slapping me around is going to make me tell you what you want to know?"

Peter took a seat and looked up expectantly, ignoring the objection.

Sylar rolled his eyes and circled, getting away from the damn wall. He stopped when he had his back to the way out. That made him more comfortable. He didn't know why he was explaining this – Peter didn't deserve an explanation, especially after hitting him – but he did anyway. "Serial killers are perverted. They're deranged. They pick their targets for sexual reasons. That's not what I did!" Peter nodded, face sober. He wasn't trying to argue, so Sylar continued, "No one calls a soldier a serial killer. Or an executioner. Or even a mad scientist who kills his subjects. They kill people for different reasons – legitimate reasons (or at least in the case of the mad scientist, he thinks they're legitimate). A serial killer knows what they're doing is wrong."

"You've said," Peter said slowly, "that you knew what you did was wrong."

Sylar shook his head decisively in contradiction to his words. "Yes, I said that. You're taking it out of context."

Peter nodded and gestured for him to go on. "Okay. Then explain."

"I knew I was murdering people. I was _**not **_getting off on it."

Peter weighed that for a while. "How much do you know about serial killers?"

The question seemed serious, not challenging. Sylar hesitated a moment, then spoke like he was quoting something, "The inability for form attachments is a common factor, as is the existence of facilitators who encourage the devaluing of human life. The quality of attachment to parents and other family members is critical to how they relate to and value other members of society. A dysfunctional family history can lead to the inability to attach, which can further lead to homicidal behavior unless they find a way to develop substantial relationships and fight the label they receive."

"You're not a serial killer because you don't want to be a serial killer?" Peter asked.

"I am not a serial killer because I am _**not**_ a serial killer."

Peter tilted his head slightly, taking that in. "Okay," he said agreeably. "You're not a serial killer." He waited a few beats and added, "You do realize, right, that what we have is a 'substantial relationship'?"

"And you're not dead," Sylar said simply.


	90. Come Out In The Wash

**Title:** Come Out In The Wash  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Words:<strong> 1,400  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sylar asks Peter for jerk-off material, though it doesn't have the happy ending he expected.  
><strong>Note:<strong> A couple years ago, I read an article about how one's writing would be better if one eliminated all reference to what a character was thinking. I don't usually write that way, but from time to time I toy with it. Like here.

* * *

><p>They sat together in the laundry room, listening to the whirring and sloshing. Sylar spoke. "Tell me about a time when you had sex on a washing machine."<p>

Peter gave him a long, piercing look.

Sylar shrugged slightly, more a gentle roll of his shoulders. "Or in a laundromat."

"I've never had sex in a laundromat," Peter said sharply. Looking off to the side, he grudgingly admitted, "I made out in one once."

"Either," Sylar said. "The laundromat, or the washing machine."

"How do you know I had sex on a washing machine?" Peter challenged.

"Because you denied the laundromat, but not the other. Ergo, the washing machine happened."

Peter scowled at him. "Why do you want to know, anyway?"

"I like to know things – especially _these_ kinds of things."

"What are you going to do with the information? It's not … valuable."

"Oh, it's very valuable." Sylar raised his brows and looked at Peter loftily. "I'm going to think about it next time I jerk off. So …," his expression turned particularly lewd, "spill."

Peter snorted and looked away. He was silent for a long time, before finally saying, "It only happened the once." He looked back at Sylar, who was watching him back, listening with polite, but pointed, interest. Peter looked away again. "Her name was Cheryl … or maybe Sherry."

"You don't remember? Peter Petrelli, who prides himself on never forgetting a name?"

"Do you want me to tell this or not?" Peter said nastily. Sylar smiled, but said nothing. "Fine. Yeah, that was her name. I went to her apartment to … study or something." Sylar was still smiling. Peter made a palm-up gesture with the hand nearer to Sylar, shaking his head. "It was a long time ago! I was like a freshman in college or something!"

Sylar's smile faded to seriousness. "Go on."

"Jerk off material, huh?"

"I've been alone a long time," Sylar dead-panned. "And since you're not putting out ..."

Peter sighed and leaned forward, elbows on knees. Another long pause passed. "I made a pass at her," he said quietly, cupping his hands together. "I'd been flirting and she was flirting back. That was how I got in her apartment. Once we were there, you know, the studying thing fell apart, since neither one of us wanted to. I asked her what she liked," he glanced over at Sylar slyly, "in the way of sex. She said anything I wanted was good." Peter looked away, pooched out his lips, and shook his head a little. "That was kind of a boner-killer – someone who doesn't know what they want, can't or won't tell me. It doesn't give me anything to work with. So I asked her what she liked to do to herself, when she was alone, what did she think about." He gave Sylar another sidelong look. Sylar was a rapt audience now. Peter's voice softened into bedroom tones.

"She said she didn't think about anything much, but there was this one thing she did that always got her off. I asked what it was. She was embarrassed, but I teased it out of her – the washing machine. I told her to show me, so she did. She put in this ratty old bathrobe and knotted a towel around it, then started the cycle. While it got up to speed, we kissed. Then she climbed on top of it and kissed down. It was nice," he purred, occasionally flitting his eyes over to Sylar, who was listening avidly.

"Then it started rumbling, shaking a little. She started smiling and laughing. I guess it felt really good. I'd been touching her – her sides, her hips, her breasts – but now I started working on getting her jeans off. I unfastened the top button and worked my hand inside, but I only stroked her belly. We were french kissing so deep, it was awkward to do more than that. So I ran my fingers around the belt line. She scooted out of them, said she usually sat on the washer naked anyway, this was why she didn't have a roommate." Peter smirked, now looking straight ahead with a faraway look in his eye.

"We made out a little more. I was petting her. Then I asked her to come to the edge of it. She did, and I went down on my knees. It put me just at the right level." Peter licked his lips, tongue slowly traveling across the top and then the bottom. Sylar swallowed noisily. Peter went on in a soft voice, "I started kissing her belly, then her pubic hair. Finally I spread her legs and kissed her lips. I tongued her. She was _shocked_." He looked over his shoulder at Sylar. "She'd never had that." Peter gave him a long, sensuous blink before turning away again. "I told her to lean back and play with her breasts, so she did. I licked … and I sucked … and then I sucked some more. I rolled my fingers up inside of her." Peter demonstrated by turning the wrist of the hand which was further away from Sylar, two fingers curled in a 'come hither' motion. "She was hot and wet and dripping. I was drooling on her and so hard I was aching. She started making these little squeaking noises and then I felt her come on my hand, on my fingers, all around them." Peter looked over at Sylar again with a lingering, satisfied look. He curled his lips in, licked them, and swallowed.

Sylar had a slightly dazed look to him. He breathed out heavily. "Then what?"

Peter shrugged. "That was it."

"Did you fuck her?" Frustration was evident in his voice.

"No." Peter looked away and shook his head. "It … actually went sort of downhill after that."

"What? How?"

"It's not important." Peter shook his head again. "Just … if you want jerk off material, imagine I stood up and fucked her silly after that."

"But what really happened?" When Peter didn't answer and kept looking away, Sylar reached out and touched his shoulder gently.

Peter glanced back at him, his expression now normal (without the 'porn narrator' look he'd adopted before). He huffed. "She said her dad had shown her the washing machine trick but had never shown her _that_." His voice took on an edge. "I asked her what she meant, and she … anyway, he'd molested her since … I guess puberty, I don't know, and …" Peter shook his head. "I lost my … anyway, I left. I was stupid, nineteen, and I didn't know what to say or how to react to that. I don't remember what I said, but it was probably clumsy, and I left. I don't think … she … really knew how to deal with it either. That's why she was blurting it out to the first guy who got her off other than her fucking father." Peter sat up and leaned back in the chair, one fist balling and releasing over and over. He shot Sylar a tense look. "You asked."

"She was damaged goods," Sylar said hollowly, looking a little more pale than usual.

Peter shook his head. "Yes, no, not really. I mean, what happened to her sucked, but it didn't mean there was anything wrong with _her_."

"How would you react to that now?" Sylar asked, blank-faced.

Peter gave him an appraising look. "You mean … to being with someone who'd been molested?"

Sylar blinked a few times and said, "You said you were nineteen then, like that … explains it. How would it be any different if you'd been older?"

"If I'd known then what I know now," Peter said quietly, looking straight at Sylar as he spoke, "I would have held her. I would have told her I was glad she'd enjoyed it. I would have asked how she felt about how things had been with her dad and if she'd ever shared that with anyone else. I would have listened … and I would have stayed."

Sylar was silent for a long moment. "And _then_ you would have fucked her silly?"

Peter hesitated, then gave an easy smile and reached over to lightly chuck Sylar on the shoulder. "Yeah. Then I would have fucked her silly. If that's what she wanted."


	91. Shower of Blows

**Title:** Shower of Blows  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Sylar  
><strong>Words:<strong> 2,000  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Definitely a bit rapey towards the end.  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter flirts. Sylar takes it too far and doesn't even know it.

* * *

><p>Peter slapped that fine ass of Sylar's as Peter jogged by him on his way off the basketball court. He was being playful and teasing, a result of the growing comradery as the exciting game had worn on. Peter seized his water bottle and drank deeply as Sylar turned to follow him, slowly, methodically, dribbling the ball as he did. Like the swat was no big deal. The slow beat drew Peter's eyes, not that he had any problem looking Sylar up and down. The guy was <em>hot<em>. Peter sucked down the last of his water and swiped at his mouth, licking his lips as his hand fell away. Sylar gave new meaning to the phrase, 'tall, dark, and handsome'. Usually, Peter's mind did not linger on his companion's looks, but the game, with its constant jostling and fighting, had created a hyperawareness of the other man. He could smell him, and that was not a bad thing. Not at all. Peter was ogling and for once, he didn't give a damn.

The expression on Peter's face was enough to draw a relaxed smirk from Sylar. Sylar reached out and tousled Peter's sweaty hair. Peter rolled his eyes at the friendly gesture, his air leaving him in a happy sigh. It should have stopped there. It could have stopped there. Then they could have gone back to the game for round two with hardly any interruption. But it didn't happen that way. Peter stood there, still catching his breath from the exertion, and didn't move as Sylar failed to follow the usual social script of taking his hand away. Instead, he came a half-step closer and trailed that hand down the back of Peter's neck, then made a slow sweep around his neck, drifting to his shoulder and then back.

Peter could have pulled away. He should have. He gave a shiver at the touch to his bare skin, to the slight shift of fabric of his sleeveless t-shirt as Sylar's fingers nudged it before returning to the more sensitive skin of his neck. Peter just looked at him, eyes wide. His nostrils flared. His breath pulled in. It felt like his hairs stood on end. He flushed and his lips parted. A totally inappropriate flood of lust filled him.

As if able to read Peter's mind, Sylar's hand hooked the back of his neck and he swooped in, intent obvious. Peter finally woke up from his hormonal inebriation, jerking his hands up between them. Sylar flinched and stopped in place, a few inches from Peter's face, face frozen in expectation of being hit for his forwardness. That struck Peter as being unfair – he was sure his face and body language had communicated clearly to Sylar that he was interested. Hitting the guy over an obvious interpretation would be wrong. Instead, he kissed him, quick and definite, before twisting away and putting some space between them. Sylar's face was priceless.

"Peter?"

Peter shook his head, hoping they could laugh off the whole thing. What he'd done was stupid and he knew it. Sylar looked way too intrigued by it all. Peter came closer and snatched the ball from him, ignoring the questioning tone. "Hey. Let's play ball." The break over, Sylar followed him back out onto the court, where the battle began again. Peter played hard and aggressively, all over Sylar. He pushed himself until he was dizzy, trying to stay one or two steps ahead of the lithe, taller man. He was up by several points when Sylar went down, hitting his elbow with a pop on the parquet flooring. Sylar's wince was fleeting, but Peter saw it all the same. He dropped the ball, stilling it with his foot. He didn't bother to ask if Sylar was okay. "Let me see."

Sylar was on his feet again and didn't resist as Peter took his arm, stabilizing the upper arm and gently palpating the joint. Peter asked, "Do you think it's dislocated?"

"No," Sylar said in a quiet tone that matched Peter's. "I just hit it hard. It's fine."

"You sure?" Peter murmured, now stroking his hand down Sylar's forearm and carefully running the elbow through its range of motion. He looked up at Sylar's face, supposedly to watch for any pain response. He was so close – warm skin under Peter's hands, blood still rushing through Peter's body, both of them breathing heavily.

Sylar put his other hand on Peter's shoulder, idly straightening the turned-under hem of his t-shirt. Then his fingertips ghosted along the side of Peter's neck as before. Peter felt himself flush, heard himself gasp. He saw Sylar reposition himself slightly for what Peter was sure was another attempt to kiss him. And as hot and horny as Peter was, he still knew that was wrong. He dodged back, almost tripping over the basketball at his heels. Recovering, he cleared his throat and said, "I have to go get cleaned up." He left without looking at Sylar again.

He hurried to the showers, thinking he needed a cold one. He got his clothes off in a flash and was under the cool water before he heard the locker room door swing open again to admit Sylar. Each shower was set up in a two-stage booth with a swinging door separating it from the locker room at large. There was a shower curtain dividing the booth into a dry dressing area and the shower part which Peter was in. There were a dozen or so showers. Sylar could get his own. Peter washed privates and pits using the thin shower gel from the dispenser on the wall, then leaned his hands against the tile and slumped. Water cascaded down him. He stared after it as it fell, imagining what it would be like to be each droplet, free, but falling. Sometimes, he wondered if that was his life – the terrifying and terrific elation of freefall before some disastrous ending. His tension began to ebb as he watched one drop after another fearlessly take the plunge and fall from his hair and nose.

The scrape and clink of the shower curtain rings, way too close, was his only warning. Peter whirled, wet hair plastering itself unhelpfully across his face. There was Sylar, in the shower with him. Fear washed through him at the intrusion. Peter whipped his hair out of his face with one hand while the other formed into a fist, attacking the threat without hesitation. He connected, tagging Sylar hard on the jaw. The blow spun Sylar to the tile wall where his hands slapped against the smooth surface to break his momentum. Sylar got them up then, interposing them in case Peter swung again. The posture gave Sylar an unintentional cringing look. Peter blinked water out of his eyes and registered that Sylar was naked, too.

He didn't know what to do about that. He didn't know what to think about it, but it took away a lot of the element of danger Peter's subconscious had initially imagined was there. Sylar didn't let him work it through – the man met his eyes, his expression careful but focused, and lowered himself to his knees. Peter's brows rose and he shuddered as he took in the meaning of the act. He stared down, meeting Sylar's eyes as the man leaned in, slow, steady, and inexorable, with Sylar looking up at him all the while. Peter felt hypnotized by those dark, fathomless eyes. Only peripherally did he see the strong features and the glossy, dark hair scattered haphazardly across Sylar's brow from their violence. Reddened lips parted as Sylar neared his goal. Peter was looking nearly straight down, holding his breath in disbelief. They'd never done anything remotely like this. Hell, the pat on the ass Peter had given earlier was, like, the most. Ever.

Until now. Their previous boundaries were obliterated as Sylar's mouth touched him. Lips parted further and Sylar's clever tongue licked Peter's penis into his mouth, sucking it in. It was soft yet, but the contact was like shocks through Peter's system. He hadn't believed it was going to happen until it did; he hadn't thought if he should allow or prevent it, what he should do. Sylar wasn't touching him at all with his hands, merely leaning forward awkwardly, sucking and pumping at Peter with his mouth. Only one thing occurred coherently to Peter to do: "Um, here." He touched the side of Sylar's head and took a half-step forward so the man wasn't leaning so uncomfortably. Sylar shot him a smirking acknowledgement and went back to work.

Peter finally started to breathe again. He had the feeling in the pit of his stomach that this was awful and he needed to stop it, but his hips seemed to have a mind of their own. His brain fuzzed out and even that weak moral objection was lost in the static. He was hardening fast, even under the uneven attentions he was getting. Sylar had paused to lick him all over, sucking at the sides and base, rolling Peter's dick over his nose, and finally sucking him back in with a wet, satisfying smack. Peter skimmed at Sylar's hair with one hand, the other bracing him against the wall behind Sylar's back. His touch on Sylar's hair was delicate and tentative at first, then turned to fisting it as his breathing hitched with each wave of suction. Sylar's hands were still on his own thighs. Only his mouth worked, alternating hard sucks of the tip with short, tongue-swirling and longer periods of bobbing up and down. The changing pattern was lighting Peter on fire inside.

"This is going to be quick. I'm there." He pulled himself free and turned to direct himself at the wall, his hand pumping furiously to finish. Sylar was having none of it, however, and grabbed him back, touching Peter with his hand for the first time. He thrust Peter's dick back in his mouth just as the cusp of the orgasm hit. Sylar's first suck provoked a lurching half-thrust as Peter expelled his come in the back of Sylar's throat. Sylar winced at being gagged with cock, but he managed to swallow. The gentle, fleshy contractions around the head of Peter's dick made him spurt again with a tortured groan. The next time, Sylar did it on purpose, then pulled back and kept sucking him, kept swallowing, as Peter whimpered and twitched in aftershocks and overstimulation, not able to pull together enough thinking ability to tell Sylar to stop.

When Sylar did stop, it was when he wanted to. Peter moved back to make room as Sylar got to his feet. Peter stared at him, feeling bizarre – haunted, vulnerable, and taken advantage of all at odds with the warm, bubbly feelings of post-orgasmic goodwill. He wanted a hug and to be told it was okay and persuaded that he hadn't just dishonored his family and his brother's memory, even if he didn't think Sylar could do any of those things. All he could think of as Sylar made one last, exaggerated swallow, licking his lips, was that he hadn't asked for any of this, hadn't wanted it, and hadn't done what he should have done to stop it. Now it was too late. Sylar turned to walk out.

"Sylar?" Peter's voice was almost tremulous. Almost.

The man looked over his shoulder, casting his eyes up and down Peter's body as if he owned it. He said, "I'll leave you to clean up," making it unclear if Sylar was leaving to clean up, if he was leaving so Peter could clean up, or both. Probably both.

Peter stared at the shower curtain until it stopped moving. Numbly, he turned the water temperature to as hot as it would go and sat down under the scalding spray. He held himself tightly as though he were cold, the water running over him to wash away what he wouldn't admit were tears.


	92. Primal

**Title:** Primal  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar, Peter Petrelli  
><strong>Words:<strong> 1,400  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None.  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Two scenes inspired by the word, 'primal'. The scenes are not necessarily connected.

* * *

><p>The fight had gone on long enough. Sylar could see Peter was getting genuinely angry. Pretty soon, one or both of them was going to get hurt. Sylar knew the odds were it would be him, as he was already losing as they grappled on the floor. Much as he liked to criticize Peter for not knowing when to give up, that only had bite if Sylar himself wasn't guilty of the same thing. Still, it would rankle his pride to say anything out loud. Instead, he indicated his surrender in a primal and unmistakeable way – he dropped his defenses, lifted his chin, turned his face away, and exposed his neck. He hoped Peter had enough sense to see what he was doing.<p>

A second later, he had reason to doubt that as Peter grabbed the offered throat. Sylar made an involuntary, faint noise as he tensed, but didn't otherwise move. Neither did Peter, so maybe he understood after all. He had surrendered; Peter was accepting it; and yet Peter was still holding him, forcing the submission, proving it, being dominant simply because he could be. He was rubbing it in. A shudder ran through Sylar. For whatever perverse reason Sylar didn't bother to explore, that was hot as hell. He was hard in an instant and hitched his hips upward in a slight motion. Peter huffed, but he didn't pull away. There was no snarky comment, no objection at all.

Sylar's eyes were shut. He lay on his back on the floor, Peter half-crouched above him with one hand on his throat and the other restraining one of his arms. Peter's legs pinned Sylar's, which put their groins perilously close. Sylar exhaled his yearning in a thin whine. Being taken and held down triggered something wanton and dark in him. It thrived on pain and subjugation. Maybe Peter knew that, and had the dark opposite of it, because his thumb began to slowly stroke up and down Sylar's neck. Sylar shifted his hips again in hungry need and a moment later, Peter adjusted his position so his hip rode down across Sylar's crotch. His knee pushed between Sylar's thighs. Sylar gripped the shirt on Peter's side, rubbing against him fast and firm. It was bony and uncomfortable, but it was also a willing, warm body which was enabling him. His breath puffed out. Peter put just the slightest pressure on his windpipe and it was _perfect_. Peter knew. Peter was participating. This was almost sex.

With a stifled groan, Sylar came. It had taken him an embarrassingly short time, but Peter had never given him this sort of opportunity before. There had been no sex and precious little comfort or even touching between them – just the fights and whatever contact was inadvertent. This – this had been very, very intentional. Sylar's lids fluttered. His head lolled. He didn't know what to do with this experience now that he'd had it. Peter took his hand off Sylar's throat, putting his fist on the floor next to Sylar's head. He bent. A light kiss was placed on Sylar's cheek. It was … sweet, cute, almost fraternal. It was the kind of peck you might give a relative you hadn't seen for a while. Sylar opened his eyes and looked at Peter, who gracefully rolled off of him.

Peter didn't look aroused in the least, but satisfied? Yes, he looked satisfied and sort of smug. Sylar sighed, deciding to be pleased that Peter didn't look angry or disgusted. Maybe this was something they could do more often? 'Smug' was something he could work with. Peter went to his knees and gave Sylar a nudge. "You need to go get cleaned up," he said quietly, glancing away. He was completely aware of what had happened, and he was accepting it.

"I'll do that." Sylar sat up, then got his feet under him as Peter stood with him. Sylar tried to reach out for him, just to touch his arm, but Peter stepped back and batted him away. Watching Peter's face with special attention, Sylar said, "I'm sure we'll find something else to fight about soon."

Peter gave him a sly smile that gave Sylar a fluttering sensation in his gut. "I'm sure we will."

* * *

><p>Sylar came awake with a start when Peter grabbed his wrist. His eyes flew open, his heart thudded, and his brain flooded to full capacity. In front of him, Peter lay in bed, eyes shut, a troubled expression on his sleeping face. <em>Fuck,<em> Sylar thought, realizing what was going on. Peter was having a nightmare or something. He turned his hand and took Peter's wrist, giving it a squeeze. Peter's expression cleared and his breathing deepened. Apparently, that was all Peter needed. Sylar, though, was now wide awake. Peter slumped over onto his back, drawing Sylar's hand and arm along with him. Sylar frowned at him.

Putting up with Peter's nocturnal shenanigans was the stated price of sleeping with the man, along with not actively molesting him. Generally, Sylar was willing to pay, but at the moment, he felt irritated and taken for granted. He reached out and pulled Peter's nearer arm up and out of the way. He could tell in an instant that Peter had woken, for real this time. Peter's breathing caught and his body tensed. Sylar didn't care. He snuggled in close, putting his shoulder in Peter's armpit and his head on Peter's upper chest. Being close dissuaded Sylar's own nightmares, though honestly he didn't need to be _this_ close. But he liked it. And if Peter was going to wake him up randomly in the middle of the night, then he could deal with being a little taken advantage of in return. To Peter's credit, he dealt with it fine. Once Sylar was settled, Peter dropped his arm to Sylar's back, brushed him lightly a couple times, and then fell back asleep.

Sylar slept lightly for the rest of the night, enraptured by the feel of strong arms holding him close, and so willingly. It was even nicer that Peter had awoken, Sylar decided. It made the choice to hold him seem very intentional. He hoped Peter had thought it out and made a deliberate choice, and not some half-asleep, muzzy decision that it wasn't worth fighting over. Even if that, by itself, would be an improvement between them.

Peter woke again, eventually, and disturbed Sylar's dozing by trying to inch out of his embrace. It was the stealthy motions of a man trying to wriggle away from the ugly woman who had looked fabulous through the beer goggles of the night before. Sylar growled as the illusion of a willing partner cracked and fractured.

"I have to go pee," Peter whispered in response to the growl.

It gave Sylar hope. "Come back," he asked in his own whisper, like reality couldn't take it if he spoke at full volume.

"No." Peter had made it to the side of the bed and stood. "I'm getting up."

"I want you," Sylar said petulantly. He didn't like the refusal.

Peter just shook his head and rolled his eyes.

Sylar snarled. If Peter was going to take himself away, then fine! He pushed his face into the pillow Peter's head had rested on and rolled himself into the warm spot Peter's body had left. Thrusting his hand into his pajama bottoms, he pushed them down and stroked himself hard within a few seconds. Peter was still standing there – of that, Sylar was very, very aware. Sylar kept his eyes mostly shut and moaned for his audience, tugging and jerking himself. He bared his teeth, feeling himself ridiculously close, ridiculously fast. He'd never done this while anyone watched. Admittedly, there was a sheet obscuring him, but the motions were unmistakeable. He turned to his side when he came, wishing he'd thought to flip back the sheet so he could try to target Peter, but this was probably better. His semen spurted, striping Peter's side of the bed, marking it and claiming it in a primal way. Parting his eyes and adopting a lazy, satisfied smile, he looked up at Peter.

"Not cool, man," Peter said, but his expression was slack-jawed lust. "Not cool." He went around the edge of the bed towards the bathroom, collecting himself. "You're doing the laundry today."

"You watched the whole thing," Sylar crowed. If that was Peter's only objection, then … wow.

"You were covered," Peter snapped. "There was nothing to see."

Sylar snorted, talking to Peter's back as he left the room. "You knew exactly what I was doing." The bathroom door shut firmly. Sylar's smile broadened as he murmured to himself, "Just like I know exactly what you're going to do now." He stretched out on his side of the bed, luxuriating as he wondered how long it would take Peter to jerk himself off in there.


	93. Changes

**Title:** Changes  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar, Peter  
><strong>Words:<strong> 1,300  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> The barest hint of dub-con and rough sex.  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter wants Sylar to give him a good reason for fucking.

* * *

><p>"Nothing ever changes with you!" Peter said, his exasperation clear.<p>

Sylar rolled his eyes. He'd had enough of this argument five minutes ago. "Fucking me would change things," he said, flippant, but true.

Peter stared at him. It was hardly new – the offer, that is – but to have Peter really latch onto it was. "You think it would? Huh?" Peter's voice started out hard, then changed.

Sylar blinked and straightened as Peter advanced on him. He was grabbed and hauled off-balance in the open-plan penthouse they'd taken up residence in. Shoving and pulling, Peter got him to the bed and fairly threw him on it. Sylar rolled to his back and lifted to his elbows, mouth agape, a bewildered smile fighting its way onto his face.

"You really," Peter said huskily, sliding his knee between Sylar's legs, parting his thighs with it, and nestling it firmly but gently in Sylar's crotch, "_really_ think it would change things?" Peter shoved him flat on the bed and leaned over him, exhaling heavily.

Sylar's eyes were huge. This was totally unexpected. It had his blood pumping with the possibilities. "Yes."

Peter smirked at him, dropping his knee off the edge of the bed and letting his thigh and hip roll into and against Sylar's groin. "How?" he asked as he rubbed up and down, feeling Sylar's growing hardness under him.

Sylar didn't want a conversation. He pulled Peter down and kissed him, trying unsuccessfully to bring Peter flush against him. Peter pressed him to the bed, returning the kiss passionately, but refusing to be drawn down. When he broke the kiss, he scoffed, "No," and pulled away entirely, leaving Sylar unsatisfied on the bed.

Sylar's head popped up immediately. "What? 'No?' You fucking tease!" He sat up, outraged and flabbergasted to be led on so strongly and then dropped like a moldy donut.

Peter laughed, low in his throat. "It's hardly a tease when I've told you 'no' for months, Sylar. If I say 'no' nineteen times and then the twentieth I say 'maybe', and I think about it and say 'no' again, that's not a tease. That's me checking my options."

"No, that's you being a fucking cock-tease and you know it!" Sylar was on his feet now, simmering with anger. He wouldn't put up with being treated like this.

"You didn't give me a good reason."

"I'll give you any reason you want!" He was nearly yelling, looming over Peter now.

"You're not offering anything I want, Sylar!" Peter growled up at him.

"The things you want," Sylar ground out, "no one can give you."

"Exactly."

"That's not fair!"

"Tell me how killing my brother was fair, huh?"

"I'll give you your fucking good reason!" Sylar grabbed him, and this time it was Peter getting thrown on the bed. Sylar was on him in a moment, aggressively crawling over him and flattening Peter out. He needn't have bothered – Peter wrapped arms and legs both around Sylar, pulling them together and not trying to get away. "Yeah!" Sylar huffed out before Peter turned his face and kissed him. Peter hunched against him and Sylar responded, humping between his legs, the alternating pressure working for him. Peter freed a hand and put it between them, finding the bulge of Sylar's cock and massaging it expertly.

"Come on," Peter whispered in his ear, air puffing against Sylar's disarrayed hair. "Fuck me. You gonna come for me? Come on! Show me!"

Sylar groaned. The dirty words, the lewd commands, the sudden cooperation went all through him. He bucked harder, Peter's fingers somehow finding him even through the denim, pinching, pressing, and stroking. After a moment of fumbling, he felt Peter drop Sylar's zipper. He was taken in hand with nothing but cotton briefs between them. He came almost immediately.

"Oh yeah," Peter growled, grinning smugly. He kissed Sylar again, deep and probing. He released Sylar's dick and pushed the flaps of his fly closed.

Sylar reached down to return the favor, but Peter pushed his hand aside. Confused, Sylar asked, "What? That's-"

"Fading already," Peter interrupted him. "I don't need anything from you."

Sylar's eyes widened. Peter had just jerked him off to shut him up. That was all it was. There was nothing mutual to it, no desire, no nothing. He'd been…used. His jaw dropped.

"Except a kiss," Peter murmured. "I want another one of those before you blow up." He raised himself quickly to claim one, covering Sylar's open mouth with his own, prompting Sylar to return the kiss, too befuddled to do anything else. When it ended, Peter began to scoot away backwards across the bed, apparently aware of how much danger he was in. Sylar finally came to his senses. He lunged after, brought up short by Peter grabbing a handful of shirt with one hand and cocking back the other as a fist. Sylar paused long enough to establish that Peter wasn't going to hit him. Then he pushed forward slowly, eyes on Peter's lips. Peter let him.

"You need kisses." Sylar turned his head and let their lips meet. It was soft, warm, and almost chaste. His eyes were open and on Peter the whole time, all the fury, humiliation, and despair of the last few minutes warring with a tiny flame of hope. When he pulled back, he said, "Then I will give you kisses." He looked at Peter with an expression of pleading. There was a way between them and Sylar could see it through all the sloppy, interfering emotions. Peter had asked a question, opened a door, taken an action, and expressed a need. Everything else – the taunting, the teasing, the threats – was a distraction, a Petrelli smokescreen. Or so Sylar hoped.

Peter swallowed. He released Sylar's shirt and lifted that hand to touch lightly at the moisture on Sylar's lips. He met Sylar's eyes with something like wonder, then pulled back, finishing his escape over the opposite side of the bed.

Sylar heaved a sigh and went back the way he'd come. He got a new pair of underwear from the dresser, then went to the bathroom to change and clean himself up. When he came out, Peter was curled up on one corner of the couch, bare-footed and staring at a book. Peter set it aside immediately and looked at him. It wasn't a challenging look. It was wide-eyed and encompassing, as if he were taking Sylar in for the first time, or trying to memorize his appearance. Sylar met his gaze. It went on for more than a minute, before Peter finally dropped his eyes to take in the rest of Sylar. Sylar slid onto the couch, in the middle, near Peter's end. He wasn't there a second before Peter stuck out his foot and wedged his toes under Sylar's thigh near the knee. Sylar smiled and stroked the foot more familiarly than he'd ever done before.

Peter reached out and touched a few fingers along the top of Sylar's hand, giving him tiny strokes. "Good reason," he said. "Good change."

"I told you it would work," Sylar said softly, a fluttering in his gut as he realized he'd been right.

Peter smiled and made a dry chuckle. "Yeah, you did. Sometimes you've got to hit me with a sledgehammer to make me listen."

Sylar looked at him with complete innocence. "I will be your sledgehammer whenever you need it."

Peter blinked. "You did _not_ just say that."

Sylar looked down, smiling away his mischief. Peter laughed, then rolled to his back and set his lower legs across Sylar's lap. "Okay," Peter said. "We'll try it your way."


	94. Petrelli Promises

**Title:** Petrelli Promises  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar, Peter  
><strong>Words:<strong> 500  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Peter is such a hot head.

* * *

><p>"I never finished that book."<p>

Sylar looked over at him questioningly.

"That book: _Alive!_ I said I'd finish it in three or four days. Didn't."

Sylar had never expected Peter to keep his word in the first place. It was weird how the man would point his own failings out like it was some sort of confession. He shrugged dismissively. "Petrelli promises."

Peter whacked him in the face almost immediately, the motion so fast it took Sylar a moment to figure out what had happened. Sylar touched at his stinging upper lip and blinked at Peter in surprise. Having jumped up and now standing at arm's length from him, Peter seethed and glared. "Don't talk about my family like that!"

Sylar licked the sore spot on his lip and rose to his feet slowly. "I'll talk about them however I want," he said resentfully.

"No," Peter got in his face, "you won't!"

Sylar drew himself up to his full height, realizing they may well be on the verge of another throw-down. Growling, he said, "I've _earned_ the right to say whatever I want about them, Peter. I paid for it in blood and more."

Peter couldn't have gotten any closer without kissing him, but that seemed to be the last thing on his mind. Pity. "Fuck that! You _lost_ the right to say anything about anyone in my family –_ especially_ you!"

Sylar blinked once, not entirely sure how Peter meant that, aside from insultingly and angrily, which was clear as day. Was he saying Sylar was part of the family? He tilted his head and leaned backwards as much as he dared without risking losing his balance. He refused to actually step away first, so he snarked, "You might not be so sensitive about it if there wasn't so much to be said."

Peter's brows climbed. Honestly, Sylar had expected to get hit again, but Peter seemed to be actually thinking about what had been said. "Yeah, maybe so." Peter backed off, then rallied with, "You know I'm sensitive about it, there's nothing I can do about it other than shut you up, so don't start anything to start with!" He paced uneasily, but it looked like working off tension rather than building up to another outburst.

"Your articulation could use some work," Sylar said quietly, slowly calming down as he realized there wasn't going to be a fight. Peter grimaced at him and returned to his seat glumly. "I suppose it's not your fault you're related to them," Sylar offered, settling himself down as well. He was going to count this conversation as a win on his side, even if it resulted in him saying less about the despicable Clan Petrelli in future. It was nice to have Peter admit they were fucked up.

Peter just shrugged. "I'll read the book next."

Strangely, Sylar believed him this time.


	95. Irresistible Force Paradox

**Title:** Irresistible Force Paradox  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sylar, Peter  
><strong>Words:<strong> 100  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> None  
><strong>Setting:<strong> The Wall  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sylar snarls; Peter flirts; Sylar has no idea how to take that.

* * *

><p>"No wonder your name means 'redundant rock', <em>Peter Petrelli<em>!" Sylar leaned forward, fists on the table, scowling at the source of his frustration. "You are the very essence of the immovable object!"

Peter smiled at him, all sweetness and innocence, his response so quick and glib that Sylar was sharply reminded the man was brother to a professional politician. "No wonder. _Your_ name refers to the passage of time, _Sylar_, and like you, it's an irresistible force."


End file.
